


Memories of Ages Past

by LadyAmaly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Ghosts, M/M, Mental Institutions, Organized Crime, Reincarnation, Time Travel, mafia au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 46,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAmaly/pseuds/LadyAmaly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daenerys struggles to distinguish between two halves of herself: Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons and Dany, the orphan girl locked in a mental institution.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, the Starks have to learn how to cope with the sudden death of Ned Stark. </p>
<p>A Modern Day Mafia AU, with reincarnation, ghosts, time travel and paid assassins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beloved Queen

Chapter 1 – The Beloved Queen

 

***

 

_September 17, 2012,_

_Saint Augustine Psychiatric Hospital,_

_Irri._

 

***

 

The Saint Augustine Psychiatric Hospital had recently been renovated. Gone were the cracks in the painting and the uneven walls, the old furniture and the checkered tiles. Everything seemed brighter now. Shiny and appealing in a way that was supposed to make the patients feel more at home.

Irri missed the old place. 

She had started working there three years ago, right after her parents and her little sister had died in a car accident; about the same time her lover had decided she wasn’t good enough for him anymore. Moving halfway across the country to get away from her pain, Irri had fitted all of her belongings into two small suitcases, and when she had unpacked them in her new home bought from her parents’ money, they seemed like heavy treasure chests waiting to be discovered: there was the gold pendant her sister had given her; the pink dress her mother had made for her; and that pair of shoes her father had insisted were hideous—all of those little things that kept her grounded. 

Irri knew what it was like to float aimlessly, and she remembered how welcoming Saint Augustine’s dark corners had been when she first started working there. She understood how tempting it could be to get lost in those shadows. It was known to happen; people forgetting themselves because no one cared to coax them out of their shells. But Irri refused the temptation. She had a purpose there and couldn’t afford to get lost. She was a nurse, and her job was to help her patients get better. 

But how could she help them beyond their medical needs? There was so little she could do for them, and at the end of the day, when she crawled back to her little apartment, her heart was shattered three times over. The white, shiny floors, the new windows and the brightness made it so much harder to hide how broken they all were. It seemed like the renovation had stirred up old ghosts, and now there was something different on everyone’s faces, like a new set of frown lines or a darkness inside their eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me my daughter called? I know she called me.”

“I’m sorry, but she hasn’t. Not today. Maybe she will tomorrow.” She wasn’t going to call, though. She never did.

Grace Green was nearly eighty years old, and from what Irri understood, she had been at Saint Augustine for nearly ten years. Her daughter had not called once.

“What do you think happened to her daughter?” a new nurse, barely out of nursing school, asked. “No one just forgets their mother in a place like this without a reason.” Missandei’s eyes were quick, sharp and curious, no doubt trying to think of a possible explanation that didn’t seem too terrible for both mother and daughter.

“But they do. It is known to sometimes happen,” Irri responded. Seeing the other nurse instantly deflate made her rethink her words. “Maybe she doesn’t know where her mother is. Maybe she is unable to call. Maybe it’s too painful.” _Maybe she’s dead._  

“Maybe.” Missandei shrugged her shoulders and seemed to let the subject go, but Irri was sure that it wouldn’t be long until she started asking around again. She thought about warning her against it, because some things were just better left to settle by themselves, but decided against it. Missandei would learn soon enough that she couldn’t save these people, no matter how much she wanted to.

“It’s eleven. Could you please go check on Mr. Loraq? I have to get a patient ready for an appointment with the new doctor. She wants to talk to our dragon queen.”

The nickname had seemed like a cruel mockery at first, but the nurses in Saint Augustine all said it fondly and with a small smile. Dany was a sweet, troubled girl who was always so impeccably polite one would think she was raised in a noble family. Her stories were something of a legend throughout the hospital, and the other patients often tried to coax tales from her.

_“The Dothraki were fearsome warriors, and the Free Cities trembled before them. My sun-and-stars rode in front of thousands of men."_  

_“My brother and I, we are the blood of old Valyria, the blood of the dragon.”_ Her brother was dead. Had killed himself when she was sixteen. 

_“My children, they grew so big. Drogon was the biggest, and when he unfolded his wings they blocked out the sun.”_ She often talked about her children, the dragons, and it earned her looks of both wonder and pity.

_“I was Queen of Meereen once, and Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. I was Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles. I walked through fire once and I did not burn.”_

Her brother had set himself on fire. Their house had burned down and she had been the only survivor. She had walked away from it physically intact, but something had cracked inside of her then.

_“I am the daughter of King Aerys Targaryen and Queen Rhaella. I am sister of Rhaegar and Viserys, born on Dragonstone during a great storm.”_ From what Irri had gathered, Dany had no family whatsoever. She and her brother had been bounced from one foster family to the other until he was old enough to take care of her on his own. No one in Saint Augustine knew what had happened to her parents. There was no aunt, cousin, nor friend to visit her.

_“I am Daenerys Targaryen, the Stormborn, the Unburnt. Daenerys Targaryen. **Daenerys Targaryen**.”_ She was Danielle Thornburn no matter how hard she had convinced herself she was someone else; her name written down in ink on all of their records of her.

Dany had been admitted to Saint Augustine five years ago, after having attempted to set a woman on fire. She claimed that the woman was some sort of a witch, a maegi, that had killed her husband and unborn son. The poor lady had suffered terrible burns on half her body, but the young, self proclaimed queen had gotten away fairly lightly. Her lawyer had been Illyrio Mopatis, well known throughout the country for his high-profile clients. He seemed to have taken a special interests in Dany, and decided to take her case pro bono. Irri knew she could have never afforded him otherwise.

Irri shuddered at the thought of what kind of interest the fat, greedy man had taken in someone as young and beautiful as Dae...Danielle. Saint Augustine was a renowned hospital, famous for its doctors and the revolutionary progress they managed with their patients, but it was still a psychiatric ward—a terrible cage to be caught in for anyone. Dany was small and delicate, and the years spent there had left her too thin and too pale, as if she was always on the verge of collapsing. She was still beautiful, in the same way that pearls were beautiful when they scattered all over the floor because the string that held them together had broken. Her shoulders were forever drawn back, her back as straight as a sword, and Irri often wondered how she was able to do it. _Why haven’t you crumbled yet?_ She wanted to ask.

Today, Irri found her sitting on her bed and staring out of the window. It was a sunny day in mid-September, but while the sun was shining, it didn’t give off any warmth. Dany’s face was bathed in the light, and she had dark rings around her eyes, colored a deep purple; like bruises.

“Irri, I dreamt about Meereen again last night.” She didn’t turn to look around, and for that the nurse was glad. It was hard to withstand her gaze most days, but when she spoke of the things she’d dreamt, it was like Dany changed from within. Her face held a hardness to it that wasn’t there most of the time, and it fueled an inner fire that was not supposed to burn so brightly after five years. “You were there again. You called me Khaleesi. I remember that.”

The first time Irri had seen Danielle, the girl had been silently eating her meal and staring straight ahead with a determination probably born out of desperation. Maybe she had heard Irri coming into the cafeteria, or maybe her eyes had just latched onto her and projected some fantasy woman, but one second she’d been calmly eating her food, the next she had been in front of Irri with a hopeful smile on her face and talking rapidly in a strange, harsh language.

“Irri, it’s me. Don’t you remember? I was married to Khal Drogo, I was Khaleesi. You were one of my wedding gifts, you were my handmaiden and my friend, you...you...You must remember, Irri, you must.”

But there hadn’t been anything to remember, and the look Dany had given her when she’d said as much had kept Irri up at night for weeks afterwards.

“Irri? Do you think I’ll ever get out of here?” The question was spoken in curious and detached tones, nothing like that hopeful longing with which she had looked at Irri all those years ago.

“Of course you will.” The answer was automatic, but it was meaningless, and they both knew it. Even if she were to get out, that day would not be somewhere in the next week, next month, or even the next year.

Dany didn’t look like she had heard her. She kept staring out of the window, the harsh, yellow sunlight streaming onto her face, making her silver hair glow like a burning crown around her head.

 

***

 

_September 17, 2012,_

_Saint Augustine Psychiatric Hospital,_

_Daenerys Targaryen._

 

***

 

She had always known who she was, what she was. Viserys had called her Daenerys when they had been alone, but he had told her that she had to keep responding to Danielle in public. 

“It’s because they’re after us. They want to kill us, Daenerys, the men that took everything away. They took everything, Daenerys, they’re even trying to take our names, but we won’t let them. We are the blood of dragons.”

_Dragons_. 

She had dragons; three of them. Yes, she remembered Drogon’s onyx black scales and his burning eyes, how they flew together over Meereen’s bricks and bones. Rhaegal, her wild dragon child who burned the great pyramid of Yherizan and claimed it for himself. And Viserion. Her Viserion who was lost to her and never did come back.  

Daenerys remembered other dragons as well: a three headed beast with blood red skin upon a black field, the Targaryen coat of arms; gold dragons, the kind that her Jorah had betrayed her for; and the Dothraki dragon that had grown in her womb, with skin like copper and silver hair.

Growing up, there had been days when Daenerys hadn’t even gotten out of bed. Waking up had meant leaving behind a world she knew, had meant leaving Daenerys Targaryen at the foot of her bed and assuming the role of Danielle Thornburn for yet another day. So much changed along with a name, and it was impossible for anyone to understand. Danielle Thornburn was an orphan girl who kept her head bowed low and her eyes glued to the ground, and Daenerys...Daenerys was a queen.

“Danielle, could you tell me about your brother?”

This doctor was new, a tall woman with bright red hair and an exotic accent. This was the first time she talked to Daenerys, and she had probably introduced herself at the start of the session, but Daenerys couldn’t remember her name. _M_ , something.

There were so many doctors, so many names, so many demands. _Tell me about your brother. Tell me about your parents. Tell me about your foster parents. Tell me why you burned Mirri Maz Duur. Tell me about your hallucinations. Tell me your name._

They didn’t understand anything, but it was unfair to judge them based on that. No one else understood, apart from Viserys, because they couldn’t remember the lives they had left behind. Sometimes it was better to forget, because people had lived cruel, hard lives that had ended tragically. Some had lived in misery and desolation. Some had lived in palaces. It was better for them not to remember, and maybe, occasionally, Daenerys envied them terribly.

“Danielle?”

She closed her eyes for a second and imagined what her life would have been like as Danielle Thornburn only. Maybe she would have been satisfied with it. After all, what could she compare it to? Maybe Vise...Victor would have been kinder and gentler, less like a king without a crown and more like a brother.

He had never remembered his violent death or the way he had behaved towards her during their time with the Dothraki—both a blessing and a curse. She hadn’t wanted him to know he’d been killed, but at the same time it had been horrible to grow up around him when she knew what he had looked like dead. If she tried hard enough, she could even remember the sounds he’d made while he had died, and the smell of his burned skin.

“Danielle?”

“That is not my name!” She slapped her hands down on the table, making the various pens and papers the doctor had brought with her tremble and shake. “That is not my name,” she repeated, her voice so much softer now, like the queen inside had momentarily risen from her deep slumber before leaving Dany to face her doctor on her own again.

“What’s your name, then?” There was a strange light in this little office, a strange light that made the doctor’s eyes glow red for a second too long.

“My name is Daenerys Targaryen,” she replied, raising her chin an inch. The doctor regarded her with cool interest and played with the ruby on her pendant.

“And what does Daenerys Targaryen have that Danielle Thornburn lacks? Why would you choose one name over the other?" 

_Because Daenerys is a queen. Because she is strong and brave and capable. Because she was important and needed._

“Because it’s my true name. I remember it.”

They had taken her family, her husband, her child, her kingdom. They had taken her revenge when they’d saved Mirri Maz Duur, and they had claimed her sanity when they had locked her up in Saint Augustine. They would not take her name.

“Daenerys Targaryen.” The doctor’s voice was like a song, running through Daenerys and echoing inside the office. “Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men.” She was shuffling the papers she had brought with her, no doubt looking for all the titles that were featured on one of them. “The Stormborn, the Unburnt. Baptized by fire’s burning kiss.” But she wasn’t looking at the papers, she was looking straight at Daenerys, and when she leaned forward, she whispered in the same lilting melody, “Your Grace.”

“Do not mock me.” She had meant for the words to sound commanding, but what came out was little more than a strangled plea. “Please. Please, do not mock me.” Queens did not beg, and the Mother of Dragons had to be fearless and she had to be wise. “You don’t know anything. You can’t know.” She clenched her fists as tightly as she could, hoping it would mask their tremble.

“I would never presume to mock you, Your Grace. I am merely someone interested in the well-being of one as special as yourself. You see, there are not many people in the world who have your gift, and most of them are terrified of it. They strive to hide it as far into themselves as possible, but it doesn’t work. Those people will eventually lose their minds.”

“But not me?”

“Not you. Never you. You are brave enough to embrace what you are and accept the fate that was set in front of you. I have seen the great road you must walk on, Daenerys Targaryen, you who are so beloved by fire.” She smiled serenely and leaned back in her chair, the red spill of her hair violent against the white of her doctor’s robe. She looked so harmless, this woman who talked like she knew everything, but Daenerys felt a cold ribbon of ice wrapping itself around her spine.

_This woman is not to be trusted_ , she told herself. The air around them was thick and heavy with an undercut of power that felt almost tangible, and Daenerys knew that this changed everything. _She is powerful. She might mean harm._

_She believes me._

In the end, that was all that mattered.

“What have you seen?”

“I have seen you in the flames, and I know what lies ahead. A world that bows at your feet, a world remade. You will need patience, Your Grace, because your time has not yet come, but believe this: I have heard the flames sing for you, and your song is glorious.” The redheaded woman was smiling again, and her eyes glowed like Drogon’s, her lips the curve of a bloody _arakh_ , her ruby pendant burning like dragon fire.

 

***

 

Daenerys Targaryen remembered.

Once upon a time, she had been little and carefree and simply _free_. Memories of her old life and her new one had blended together, but there had been no horrific battle scenes, and there had been no smell of cooked meat. She had been a princess riding a dragon one day, and she had been playing in the garden of her latest foster family the next. It had been a time when she and Viserys had still been in foster care, but her memories of him were never pleasant—he was always snapping at her and telling her to leave him alone, _because you don’t understand, you stupid child! You don’t understand, you never did and you never will._

Daenerys had wanted to tell him, _I don’t understand, but I remember._ Her brother had been haunted by so many monsters, and he hadn’t known how to fight them, Viserys never had. She’d wanted to tell him how she hadn’t understood, but that she wanted to help, and maybe he could explain it all to her. Daenerys had always known she couldn’t keep her brother close, and his death was a certainty that forever lurked in the back of her mind, but maybe she could make the most of her time with him if only he’d allowed it. Maybe then he would have understood that he had her.

Looking back, she couldn’t help her bitter laughter at her own foolishness. Viserys had never thought of her as anything more than a burden, not even a useful one until she’d married Khal Drogo—but there had been no armies here, no use for a little girl that had once been a queen.

She remembered growing up and never feeling right in her own skin. There was too much old blood in her, fierce and strong and determined, to ever feel satisfied in Danielle Thornburn’s little shoes. She was Daenerys Targaryen, a dragon queen in a world that had never known of dragons. She kept to herself and tried to talk as little as possible. There was no need to seek out others when in her head she heard the most amazing stories about the bravest and fiercest of knights from the Seven Kingdoms. If she concentrated enough, she could hear Ser Barristan’s kind voice and let herself get lost in the memories.

There were weeks, months, years that Daenerys didn’t remember herself as Danielle. She had let herself get swept away by a harsh, violent world that respected her, a hot, blazing world drenched in blood, but a world in which she had carved a place for herself. Danielle had gotten up early in the mornings and tried to make ends meet, she had gone to school and struggled to get decent grades, but Danielle wasn’t real and Daenerys was, even though her world had gotten lost through time.

Daenerys remembered a woman.

She had started noticing her when she was about thirteen, which was a miracle by itself. That woman was the only thing Daenerys remembered from her life as Danielle, the-thirteen-year-old, as she had spent most of that year in her head, riding with her sun-and-stars through the Dothraki heat.

One day, when she had been walking home from school, Daenerys had caught sight of a shadow. A white shadow that seemed to billow in the November wind, too far away to clearly make out. She had turned around fully and squinted to see what it was, but she hadn’t been able see that far. It had been on the other side of the road, and she’d been in the busiest part of town—there had been so many cars between her and the white wisps of shadowy smoke she had noticed, but she had to be there, she had to see. What was it? There had been an instinctive pull towards the apparition, and Daenerys had found herself wondering what it would look like up close, how the white light would feel like when she ran her fingers through it, how...

“Kid, what the hell are you _doing_?”

A car had stopped inches away from her. She hadn’t even realized she had moved, but suddenly she’d found herself in the middle of the road, cars honking all around her.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed? Get out of the way!”

Her heart had been hammering in her chest, but she’d been strangely calm. A wave of contented tranquility had embraced her from all sides, and rather than running towards the safety of the sidewalk, her eyes had searched the other side of the road for the...for what? There was nothing there. She had been so unnaturally disappointed then, her eyes filling with tears she’d tried so hard to ignore until she’d gotten home.

When Daenerys had gone to sleep that night, she’d dreamt of blue roses; their sweet smell mixing with the nauseating stench of blood. When she’d woken up, it was like nothing had happened. For days, she had gone on with everything as usual.

But then, when she had been out shopping for food one day, she had been jolted out of her complacency. It had been around the end of November—she remembered because it had started snowing outside. Nothing much, but enough to merit a warmer coat. Viserys had given her a long shopping list, but she’d had no idea how she was going to buy half the things on it with the little money they’d had. She had been in the store when she’d raised herself on the tip of her toes to reach for an item on her list, placed inconveniently on the top shelf, and when she’d made to put it in her shopping cart, she had found _that_ woman standing right in front of it. She had been tall and slim, clothed in a white dress with dark hair falling over her shoulders in waves. She had been like a shadow made solid in the middle of the store, and she had seemed to radiate a crisp coolness that had made Daenerys shiver. There had been a stillness to her that should have frightened Daenerys, but hadn’t, rather it had made her feel at peace.

She’d taken a step towards the woman, and then another, and Daenerys had looked at her straight in the eyes. Grey eyes, kind eyes. Old, old eyes. The woman had been so close, Daenerys had been able to smell her, a flowery sweetness that had hidden something else, something bitter, something like death. Suddenly, Daenerys had been terrified.

She’d dropped what she had been holding, turned around, and she’d run out of the store into the streets, running all the way home. Viserys had yelled at her, and he had been furious when she’d refused to go back to the store, but she wouldn’t have been caught dead there again.

After that, she had kept seeing her everywhere. Outside of school, looking at her through the window. At the table of a restaurant, watching Daenerys as she passed by. Behind a bookshelf in the library, silent but watching. Always watching.

She had never moved to approach Daenerys, and she didn’t seem like she wanted to hurt her, but her eyes haunted Daenerys with every step she’d taken. Finally, she had steeled herself and gone to approach the woman one day before going to school.

It had been January, the snow thick and fluffy. It had still been night, but outside the sky had started to take a purple pinkish hue, and even though it had seemed pleasant and inviting, the air outside had been frigid, and Daenerys had shivered under her multiple layers of clothing. The woman had been dressed in her thin, white gown that fluttered and trembled in the wind. Daenerys had walked over to her and stared. She had prepared a speech for the next time she would encounter the woman, had rehearsed it in front of the mirror, but at that moment, she hadn’t remembered one word of it.

“Who are you? You’re always following me, but you never do anything. What do you want?” The questions had been as good as she could give considering the situation.

“I’m a friend.” She had smiled a little, and the quirk of her lips had made her look so kind and beautiful, and somehow that had made her smile seem so, so _sad_. “I’ve been asked to watch over you.”

“Who asked you to watch over me?” For some reason, Daenerys had dreaded the answer. 

“Someone who loves you very much, Daenerys Targaryen.” She had towered over Daenerys, and her voice had been sure and sonorous, carrying though the howl of the wind. Just standing there in the cold, she had looked as if she was something born out of the winter’s snow.

She hadn’t been able to hold her stare for long before Daenerys had lowered her gaze to the ground. The woman’s feet had been bare and there had been blood on them. A chill had run down her spine, but it hadn’t had anything to do with the cold outside. Paying closer attention, she had been able to see blood on the ground as well, little drops of red that had dripped from the woman’s fingers.

Daenerys remembered the smell of roses that masked another, deeper scent. Blood. _Blood_. An overwhelming stench of blood, both old and new.

She’d taken a step back. She had wanted to run, but had found herself unable to.

“What are you? Is that your blood? Is it...did you kill someone, did you...?”

“Don’t be frightened! Please, don’t be frightened, Daenerys.” Her voice had been frantic. “It’s my blood. It’s always mine. I tried to hide, I tried, but I can’t sometimes, not when you’re so close.”

“Hide it...? Hide it how...?” It had dawned on her in a second, and then she’d had to ask herself... _Do I want to know?_

_Yes._

“Show me. Show me what you are.”

It would have been better not to know.

The woman had closed her eyes and breathed a heavy sigh, and suddenly there had been blood on her hands, blood on her feet, and pouring onto her gown, a deep, red blood coating the snow on the ground.

Daenerys had screamed.

“Get away! Go! Get away!”

She had closed her eyes tightly, hoping that if she couldn’t see her, the memory wouldn’t burn itself into her brain. She had choked out a sob, and soon enough, tears had been streaming freely down her cheeks. They had been tears of mourning. She had cried and cried and cried, her eyes shut close so hard her eyelids hurt, and hadn’t stopped until a neighbor had found her in front of their apartment building and guided her back inside.

Daenerys never stopped thinking about the sad woman, but she never saw her again.

 

***

 

Daenerys remembered many things: what a stallion’s heart tasted like, and how five different kinds of pills felt like when she swallowed them dry every morning. How the flames had gently kissed her skin, and how they had torn Viserys apart—what the smoldering remnants of their house had looked like after the blaze of fire had been put out.

She remembered Daario Naharis smiling at her and Ser Jorah kissing her. She remembered reading Wuthering Heights and being praised for her well argued essay—and decorating a small Christmas tree by herself, because Viserys refused to help.

She remembered summer rain on her bedroom window in Saint Augustine, and the Meereenese draught—the house with the red door, and the apartment on the fifth floor of a tall, grey building.

There was one memory that stood out, vivid and clear among all the others. She wasn’t sure how old she had been, but surely no more than six. She didn’t recall which foster family she had been living with at the time, only that she had been playing in the back garden. It had been hot and sunny, probably in the middle of summer, and she’d had her hair pulled back into a braid.

Daenerys had been looking around for a toy of some sort when she had turned around and seen _him_. A tall man in black armor, his breastplate shattered. She had been unable to see anything inside the hollow of his chest, but it hadn’t frightened her, not one beat. He’d had a helmet on, but she had clearly made out his face, handsome and gentle, with sad eyes of dark purple, and silver hair like her own. When he had come closer, she had thought vaguely that maybe she should go inside, because she hadn’t been allowed to talk to strangers, but even donning his polished, broken armor, the man hadn’t look like he was capable of ever hurting her. He’d crouched in front of her and smiled. 

“Hello, Daenerys.” It had seemed like the most natural thing in the world that he would know her name. Her real one.

“Hello, mister. What are you doing here?”

“I came to meet you, princess,” he’d answered and pulled off the gloves he had been wearing, moving his newly bared finger to touch the tip of her nose.

“Well, I’m not a princess. I’m a _queen_.” It hadn’t meant to sound spoiled, it was simply pure fact. She had once been a queen, and she knew it. Had always known it.

“My apologies, Your Grace. Of course you are. A dragon queen.” He had laughed, and she’d found herself blushing with delight at his presence. His laugh had died out, though, and soon enough he’d been regarding her with something akin to pain written on his face. “I wanted to meet you, once. I wasn’t given that chance before, sweetling. I wanted to ask you something very important, Daenerys of House Targaryen.” He had leaned forward as if he wanted to share a secret with her.

“What? What did you want to ask me?” She had rarely been that impatient, but she had felt her heart pounding and her palms starting to sweat.

“I wanted to ask for your forgiveness. There are so many things waiting for you, my brave little dragon queen, so many dark and evil things that I was not capable of defeating. I wanted to protect you and your brother from all of them, but I couldn’t. I never meant for such a great burden to fall on your shoulders. I’m so sorry I failed you. Could you ever find it in yourself to forgive a fool like me?”

“Of course I forgive you. But what do I have to forgive? There’s nothing! Nothing to forgive.” She had desperately wanted him to believe her, she had wanted to make him believe that there had been no need to carry that terrible weight on his back. She’d had no idea what he was apologizing for, but it hadn’t mattered. There had been nothing to forgive, although she had known, she’d just known that while her words were soothing, he would never truly believe her.

He had taken a deep breath and closed his eyes. He had seemed to be searching for an inner strength, and when he’d looked at her next, it had been with a softness that had made her ache.

“There’s a great darkness waiting at the end of your road, but I have faith in you. However, you shall need strength to walk upon it, and all men must draw their strength from somewhere. So draw strength from knowing you were loved, Your Grace. You were loved by so many once, and you still are. And no matter what else happens, you will always be loved by me.”

He had raised his hand to her face again and wiped at the corner of her eyes, and she had closed them at the warm touch, letting out a shaky breath. Her heart had felt so full, she’d thought it might shatter.

When she had opened her eyes, the man had been gone, and Daenerys had been alone once more.

 

***

 

Sometimes, Daenerys thought it would be so easy to slip back into Danielle Thornburn’s skin. She could start slow, starting by actually responding to the name. She could stop talking about her old life and maybe, eventually, they would deem her sane enough to try living on her own again.

But Daenerys couldn’t bear the thought of being Danielle again.

They were both locked up, they were both insane in the eyes of the law, they were both alone, but Daenerys could be brave where Danielle was not. She could be fair and just and determined, and Daenerys, at least, was loved.

 

 


	2. Home to the Starks

***

Chapter 2 – Home to the Starks

  
***

_October 2, 2012,_

_Rosenheim Cemetery,_

_Bran Stark._

***

 

Sansa’s choked up sobs were a terrible thing to hear, but it was still better than listening to the sounds Arya had made the other night: screaming and cursing their father for dying; his boss for calling him into work on a Sunday; the BMW factories for the car’s failed breaks; and God, for taking him away. By the time Robb had gotten home she had screamed herself hoarse and almost collapsed into their mother’s arms when she’d finally gone to her.

Bran didn’t dare look at his sister now. He was more afraid of seeing that lost, helpless look on her face than he had ever been of her rage. He knew that at his right, Mother was sitting tall and stiff, but that her face would be streaked with tears. She didn’t make a sound, not one little sob, and it was as if she didn’t even realize she was crying. Robb was somewhere nearby as well, but Bran didn’t search him out in the crowd.

It was raining outside. Old Nan had told him once that rain at a funeral meant that the dead regretted dying. He hadn’t given it much thought at the time, but this morning, when he’d started getting ready for the funeral, he had heard the soft tap-tap-tap of rain hitting his window, and suddenly, he’d remembered all about it. He had sat down on his bed for a moment and thought about what that meant for his father.

He didn’t want Father to regret dying. To Bran, that meant that after the car crash, Father had been alive long enough to realize that he was going to die. The paramedics had said that his father was dead when they’d reached him, but that didn’t mean he had died instantly. What if he’d had enough time to realize he was going to die? Had he been afraid, had he been resigned to it? Had he thought of them—had he thought back on happy memories in his final moments, or had he thought about what they were going to do once he was dead?

When Robb had come to tell him they were leaving soon, he had found Bran, still sitting on the bed, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs. His brother had walked over to him and held him without saying a word, and Bran had been so grateful for him in that moment. Father had been terrified and all alone, and Bran was terrified as well right now, because he couldn’t possibly imagine how life was supposed to go on without him. He was so selfishly glad that he could cling to someone. There had already been shed so many tears, he didn’t even know where they had come from. He had thought that he’d maybe run out of them when he’d finally stopped crying, his hurt soothed by the calming presence of his brother, if only for a while.

But that wasn’t the case, and as soon as he’d seen Mother again, trying desperately to hold herself together, his sobbing had started afresh.

He wasn’t crying now, blessedly, but only because he was trying his best to look straight ahead and ignore everything that was happening around him. He closed his eyes tightly when they lowered the casket because he didn’t want that memory burned into his mind; the sight of his poor father being put into the ground. There was supposed to be something more than this—a grand moment during which time stopped, the ground split open, and the wind howled its rage and grief. But the rain kept drizzling away like any other rainy day, and Bran thought it so unfair that it was all so heartbreakingly normal when their lives had been thrown into such disarray.

They were supposed to go home now, right? That’s the way these things worked: when the dead were buried, people came back to the deceased's house and told the family how sorry they were for their loss; all silently thanking God for not being in their place.  _Poor Ned, he was such a good man. I heard the brakes of his car failed. Poor Cat, she’s all alone now. How is she going to handle everything? Have you heard that poor girl sobbing?_  He had been to funerals before; he knew all about the whispering noise that filled the house with all those people there. Bran imagined walking around with that heavy, oily murmur clinging to him like tar and wondered if he was ever going to get rid of it.

“Bran, go with Robb, please. He’ll take you back home. I’ll be right behind you, I just need to talk to someone first.” Mother didn’t wait for his reply, but started heading towards a man that had kept far back during the funeral. Bran didn’t think he’d ever seen him before. He was tall and imposing, and maybe he was handsome, but he was too far away to clearly make out. Although it wasn’t too far away to see him come forward when Mother approached him, and Bran watched as he put his arms around her and held her like they’d known each other forever.

Mother looked as if she relaxed into his arms, if only for a moment. Then she stepped away from him like she had been burned, and Bran didn’t look at them anymore. He turned around and went to find Robb. He looked around for his brother’s auburn hair and saw him standing with Sansa, talking to one of their neighbors. Rickon was with them as well, his hair wet and plastered to his forehead, clinging to Sansa’s hand. He thought that he should go to them, but Bran didn’t want to go over there just to hear the same _I’m sorry’_ s again. Arya was still sitting in front of their father’s grave—no one seemed to want to move her just yet, and Bran was too much of a coward to go talk to her. 

He adored his sister—Arya and Bran had been born barely a year apart and they had always been close. Robb and Sansa had each other while Bran had Arya. But where Arya had always been their father’s daughter, Bran was so much closer to their mother. He knew that if he were to go to her now she would turn around and look at him with Father’s stormy, grey eyes, and even though she wouldn’t say anything, she wouldn’t have to, either. Bran knew what he would see in her eyes—heartbreak, betrayal,  _you don’t understand how it feels._

And Bran didn’t. He couldn’t possibly understand how Arya felt it all.

He remembered how a few years ago Arya had started...seeing things. She’d started spinning these elaborate tales of huge wolves prowling at their heels. She’d talk about kings and queens and lords, about how she’d been a Braavosi water dancer once—whatever that was. It had started out simple enough, but eventually it escalated. She had started seeing a strange, ghostly man whose hair was colored half in white and half in red, and she’d claimed he was following her around. If Arya was to be believed, he never even moved, he just appeared. They’d been in the middle of dinner once, when suddenly, Arya had jumped out of her chair excitedly and claimed that the strange man was sitting across the table from her. She’d been in school and started yelling because he was sitting at her teacher’s desk, disrupting her class in the process.

Everyone had started worrying about her, but handling her with kid gloves had only served to anger Arya. She’d started talking about her imaginary stalker to anyone willing to listen, and no one knew how to communicate with her anymore. Even Bran had begun to shy away from her, unable to stand her stories. Whenever she started talking about the huge, stone castle they had used to live in, about their wolves and about the northern land their family had ruled over, Bran had felt his stomach twisting itself into sick knots. He felt ill just thinking about Arya’s stories, so he kept his distance as best as he could. Arya had pushed for a while, trying desperately to connect with the rest of her family, but soon enough she’d given up. They’d all been so busy, and Arya’s problems had taken a backseat to their own lives because of it. Mother had been pregnant with Rickon at the time, Robb had been busy with university, and Sansa was forever with her head in the clouds. And Arya...Arya had gotten wilder and wilder and wilder.

The only person that had taken the time to pierce through Arya’s fantasy world had been Father. He’d taken her to her doctor’s appointments, he’d started taking her to fencing lessons, he’d spent every free moment with her, and slowly, ever so slowly, Arya had started to accept that there was no one chasing her. And then, one day, Arya had come into Bran’s room and asked him to come play with her. They’d spent the afternoon in the garden and Arya hadn’t once started any of her stories. After that, they were back to being best friends again, but Bran had to live with the knowledge that there was a part of his sister sealed away from him. A part she only allowed their father access to. Neither Bran, Sansa, or even Robb was invited when Arya and their father went out on one of their ‘day trips’.

No one would ever feel this loss as acutely as Arya, and it was yet another thing she couldn’t share with Bran.

“Hello there, sweetheart. Do you mind keeping me company for a little while?” Jeyne had approached him without him even noticing, and while Bran didn’t exactly feel one hundred percent comfortable around her, he didn’t feel like being alone right now.

“Sure. I was just going to the car,” he said, and then they both started walking towards the parking lot. The rain had finally stopped, but the soil was still wet, and Bran could feel his feet sink into the mud with every step.

“Do you want to ride back with me? I was supposed to drive your mother and Sansa, but she said she had to talk to someone and that she was going to ride back with them. Robb said he was going to take the girls with him, and Rickon refuses to leave Sansa’s side. I bet you could squeeze in between them if you really wanted to, but I was hoping you would come with me.”

“It’s fine, I’d like to come with you, Jeyne.” He couldn’t say, I don’t want to be near them just yet.

Father dying didn’t seem real right now. His mind fully understood the implication of the term dead—gone, buried, forever, gone, decay,  _gone_ —but the realization hadn’t settled inside him yet. It was beginning to, though, and he could feel it in the pit of his stomach; all bitter and choking and heavy, lazily filling his gut like cement. Bran feared what would happen when it all settled. He wanted to put off that moment for as long as possible, but being around Sansa, her eyelashes heavy with tears, and Arya’s steely silence, and Robb’s red rimmed eyes...it would only serve to speed up the process.

“Come on, then. Let’s get you home.”

Home.

It was a strange term for Bran. He had been born in Montpellier, under the sweet summer sun of Southern France, but a year before, Arya had come screaming into the world in the blazing hot Moroccan draught, on the outskirts of Marrakech. They had been living in Novosibirsk for five months when Mother had found out she was pregnant with Rickon, but their youngest brother had been born in Vladivostok. Bran remembered other houses as well: a one story, brick house in a Sicilian village; a duplex in Montmartre; a little house just outside of Vienna; and the beautiful view of the sea their house in Crete had offered. Now, they had been living in Germany for six years, the longest period of time he could remember spending in one country, but even then they kept moving from city to city.

First, it had been Munich, and Robb had started going to university there. From Munich, they’d moved to Ingolstadt, but Robb had stayed behind. After that, they’d kept to the Bavarian region, but never spent more than a year in the same place. They’d lived in Regensburg and Nuremberg for a while. Then, when she was old enough, Sansa had moved back to Munich, to live with Robb and study literature. In the mean time, Robb had gotten his degree in engineering, met Jeyne, and gotten engaged. Sansa, on the other hand, was still single, but she was at the top of her class.

They had been living in Rosenheim for almost a year and a half now. While he’d accepted that it was just the way they lived, Bran had never liked moving from place to place, and this would be the first time he longed for another move. He didn’t want to hear the phone ever ringing again, because he would forever fear that the  _ring-ring_  noise would be followed by Mother’s short, frantic shout,  _No_!

The ride back with Jeyne seemed to go on and on forever. It wasn’t exactly quiet, because they made small talk, but no matter how pleasant her voice was, and no matter how much Bran tried to ignore it, there was one sheer, indisputable fact that hung over them like an ever present, dark cloud: Eddard Stark was dead. Father was dead. Dead, which meant gone, buried, forever, gone.

Jeyne handed him a packet of tissues, and Bran was so thankful that she hadn’t said anything about his tears and just let him cry. That way, he could still maintain the illusion of being strong.

By the time they reached the house, Robb’s car was already in the driveway. Bran had mostly calmed down by then and his eyes were undoubtedly red and puffy, but at least the tears weren’t actively streaming down his face, so he counted it as a win. Jeyne barely found the space to park her little Volkswagen, and the number of cars littering their driveway made Bran weary of entering the house at all.

“Jeyne? Do you think you could keep me company out here? I think that...”

“Of course, honey. Come on, let’s walk for a bit. It’s nice outside.” It wasn’t. It was cold, grey and humid, and the bite of the chill had made her cheeks an apple red.

They didn’t make it too far away before a big, black Volvo with tinted windows drove passed them and parked right next to Jeyne’s car, dwarfing her blue Beetle with its size. The tall man Mother had been speaking to at the cemetery stepped out of the passenger seat of the car and went to open the back door where his mother sat. He helped her out of the car and offered his arm, which she refused. It was like his mother had changed during the ride from the cemetery to their house. She’d always stood tall and straight, but now she seemed harder and colder, a harsh, noble kind of sad determination marking her face.

“Bran, darling, why aren’t you inside?” She made no move to introduce her companion or even acknowledge that she was with someone else, and Bran thought it strange. His mother was always the epitome of courtesy, and just now she’d ignored the man she was with. Bran wanted to answer, but then he heard the car door open and slam again, and he turned to see the young man that had been driving the car. He started.

“We were just walking for a bit, Mrs. Stark. Bran wanted to get a little air before he went in.” He mentally thanked Jeyne for answering in his stead, because all he could do was stare at the young man who looked so much like Arya and Father it hurt. He had the same grey eyes, the same long face, and the same cut to his jaw. The other man, the tall, imposing one, he looked a bit like father as well—the resemblance wasn’t as striking, but there was something in the lines of his face and in the way he held himself that just screamed Ned Stark. 

Bran didn’t like it. He was overwhelmed by the familiar sinking feeling in his stomach. He remembered this from years ago, when Arya had started telling him stories about the man she kept seeing, about the northern land she dreamt of, and the wolves that followed them.

The young man who looked so much like father had taken notice of his staring, but he didn’t seem troubled by it. He smiled at Bran kindly and made to walk over to him.

“Hello.”

“Don’t talk to him.” His mother’s voice cut like the edge of a blade, so sharp and fierce that it startled Bran. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, seeming to soften somewhat. Her shoulders slumped slightly, but only for a second. “Don’t talk to him, don’t talk to any of them. I will not allow you, either of you, to speak with them. I have no choice but to accept your presence here, but you will not talk to any of my children.”

“Sure thing, Cat. I didn’t expect anything else.” Don’t call her that, Bran wanted to say. He didn’t know what to think about his mother’s outburst, nor about the easy familiarity the man addressed her with. He had an American accent, so he was probably one of Father’s old friends—only Father had never kept in touch with any of his old friends—but judging by the way he looked at Mother, and the tone of his voice, it was as though he knew exactly what was going on inside her head. As if he was Mother’s friend, not Father’s. But then why would she treat him so coldly?

Bran wanted to say something to break the tension that had settled over them, but he took a good, long look at his mother, and the sinking feeling in his stomach felt even more pronounced. Though grief marred her features, there was no mistaking the troubled look in her eyes: Catelyn Stark was  _terrified_.

 

***

_October 2, 2012,_

_Stark Residence,_

_Catelyn Stark._

 

***

 

It was hard to walk back into her house and find so many pairs of eyes staring at her. _God, give me strength,_ she prayed, and steeled herself further. She wasn’t even sure who some of these people were. Oh, she knew them, she’d met them before, but right now, as people came to her and offered her their support and their condolences, Catelyn could barely register what was being said—exactly who was saying what was of little importance.

So many people were talking to her, both in English and German. She tried her best to respond as kindly and politely as she was capable of, but it was harder than she expected. She would never have imagined herself being so completely overwhelmed by having to deal with people, but then again, young Catelyn Tully had never expected that being a widow would hurt like this.

She remembered signing the papers that officially made her Catelyn Stark and then boarding on a plane with her new husband and never looking back at her old life. She remembered hiding in Ukraine and Russia while her father’s men combed through Europe for the two of them. Most of that time she’d spent praying—churches in Eastern Europe were so different from the ones she’d left back home in Ireland, but while foreign to her, they had managed to bring her peace. It was all she’d prayed for back then, not romance, nor love, not even a happy reunion with her family. Just peace. When she’d found out she was pregnant, she hadn’t been able to breathe for a second, and as all of her options had crossed her mind, that second had seemed like an eternity.

In the end, only one of those options had been the right one, and Robb had been born in Saint Petersburg during the summer months when everything was bathed in the soft glow of the midnight sun. She remembered looking at him and thinking that her heart wasn’t equipped to handle that much love. Catelyn also remembered Ned’s look of wonder and amazement when he’d first held their son, and she had thought, _I could love him for Robb_. If for no other reason, they had made something perfect together, and for the first time since she’d gotten on the plane with him, Catelyn had felt sure of her decision. A few days later, she’d written a long letter to her father and explained her choices and her motivations. She had wanted to beg for his forgiveness and curse at him at the same time. She had taken three pages to detail what Robb looked like when he was sleeping. She had gripped the pen so tightly that by the end of her letter, her fingers had been trembling.

She’d never gotten a reply, but her father had finally given up his search for them. Others hadn’t been so kind.

Catelyn could feel Brandon’s stare on her back as she was walking around. He hadn’t come to talk to her yet, but at the cemetery, he’d told her that they had something extremely important to discuss. She had a vague idea about what he wanted, but still she dreaded the inevitable confrontation. They hadn’t spoken to each other in twenty-six years, she wasn’t sure she knew how to anymore.

When she suddenly found herself relatively free for a few minutes, she hid in the kitchen, grateful for a few seconds alone. She decided to make herself a cup of coffee, and as she reached for the jar of filtered coffee in the cupboard, the kitchen door opened and closed. Catelyn shut her eyes tightly and asked for a little mercy. A little too late, though, because she already knew who had come to intrude on her moment of quiet.

“Brandon. I don’t want to do this now.” She took out her old, little espresso machine and filled it with water.

“I only wanted to keep you company, Cat. I can’t imagine how much you’re hurting, but he was my brother and I just want...” He trailed off, and Catelyn blinked at him, surprised. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him like this; lost, tired and sad. Brandon had always been the charming one, the smiling one. “I don’t want to bother you with any important talk right now. It’s not the time. But maybe you could share your coffee with me?”

She knew Brandon had been so much angrier with her and Ned than Hoster Tully had ever been. She also knew that their decision to run far away from everything had hurt Brandon far, far worse than anyone else.  

“We never meant to hurt you, you know. It wasn’t like that,” Catelyn said suddenly.

Ned had been mourning Lyanna, and Catelyn had just realized that there was no place for her in her own world anymore. They had both found about out things no one ever should. They’d both wanted out. “I just...when we decided to leave, it wasn’t because we were so terribly in love we couldn’t possibly live without each other. It was because neither of us wanted to live like that anymore—with guns underneath our pillows and always having to watch over our shoulders. Remember what happened after Robert killed Rhaegar? And I’m still surprised no one ever questioned Ned about what happened to Arthur Dayne. How did you manage that?”

“The usual way. I bribed a few people and threatened others.” He grinned, but he looked so old. When had Brandon aged so much?

She was filling the espresso machine with coffee when she realized she wasn’t sure how much she was supposed to put in it. She’d always used the big coffee machine, because it was much more convenient. Ned was the one that made coffee in the espresso machine. Once, during the first few weeks of their marriage, Catelyn had woken up, and for a while there, she’d completely forgotten that she was married to someone. Ned hadn’t been with her in bed, hadn’t even been in the house, so it had been easy to let herself believe she was on a vacation away from her father, and that soon enough she would be back home. But when she’d reached the kitchen she’d found the still hot espresso waiting for her, along with a plate of scrambled eggs. 

Ned’s presence was so gentle and noninvasive that it was easy to forget about him from time to time. It had happened even recently, when she had been especially busy; her attention and focus split as she was pulled into what seemed like seven different directions, but not Ned, never Ned. Her house, her heart, her head, they could all be filled to the brim, but he never demanded her attention. It was almost funny now, how his loss was registering so much more acutely than his presence ever had.

She only realized her hands were shaking when Brandon pried the coffee spoon out of the too tight grip of her fingers.

“I didn’t love him when we got married. I never thought I was going to love, Brandon, but I  _do_.” Tears were running down her face freely now, and Brandon came towards her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

There was a piece of Catelyn missing from her, and it was shaped like Ned. She could never hope to fill it with something else. Nothing even came close. And now her foundation had been shaken so hard that she felt like she could hardly move, if only to make sure nothing would collapse inside. She had only ever felt so helpless once before, and even then it had been for minutes only. This had been going on for days, and would continue for days more, she knew. This was so much worse than it had been before, because back then she had been so full to the bursting point with hopeless terror that she’d been unable to think properly. But now, now she was missing something from her house, her heart, her life.  

Ned was missing. He was missing  _everywhere_.

 

***

_October 24, 2012,_

_Lighthouse Café,_

_Brandon Stark._

 

***

 

 

When Catelyn Tu... _Stark_ walked into the café, she was just as tall and beautiful as she had been when they’d first been introduced. The years had been kind to her, and even though there were worry lines around her eyes and mouth that betrayed her age, weariness and work, she still had her graceful beauty.

Brandon well remembered how their first meeting had come about. Rickard Stark had never been all that subtle when he’d been planning something, and when he’d decided—along with Hoster Tully—that Catelyn and Brandon should meet, he’d begun telling Brandon all of these stories about her. By the time they were actually supposed to meet, Brandon had learned that she spoke French, Russian and German fluently, but was only passable in Spanish and Italian. He’d found out that she had been home schooled ever since she was fourteen, but before that had been to Catholic school. He’d also been told that she was a great cook, that she had studied ballet, and that she had the beautiful Tully look. By that time, Brandon had started imagining a superhuman robot with tits and Hoster Tully’s sour, bearded face.

Instead, he had met a capable young woman that had learned all the tricks of the trade from her father. She was always by his side, and Hoster had made sure to take the time to explain how each business was run and organized. Catelyn had been groomed to take his place at the center of the Tully family’s web of control.

But then it had all gone to shit, and Catelyn had decided she was better off without any of that. Had left the world she’d been born into and run off with his brother. And now his brother was dead, and here they were...

Catelyn didn’t smile when she sat down across from him, and he knew better than to engage her in any kind of small talk. No point in beating around the bush, then.

“I want you and your children to come live in Winterfell. Before you refuse me, just hear me out. You know as well as I do that Ned’s breaks didn’t fail, just like Robert Baratheon didn’t kill himself in prison.”

She didn’t say anything, but her eyes darkened. Of course she had figured this out already. She probably knew the stakes even better than he did. Cat might have been playing the meek little librarian or secretary, or whatever it was she and Ned had decided upon when they’d moved somewhere new, but she was still Hoster Tully’s heir under all that fluff.

“I thought about that, Brandon. I did. This is exactly why I wanted out, because I didn’t want to live in constant fear of what might happen to the people I love and—”

“And how did that work out for you, Cat? How did it work out for Ned?” It came out angrier than he’d expected and he immediately felt guilty about it as he saw her face go blank. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Our lives were never perfect and I never claimed differently. Yes, we ran and we hid, but it was worth it, Brandon, because Robb has never had to see his father as a murderer, Sansa has never had to learn how to shoot to defend herself, my children got to feel safe in a way none of us, not even Lyanna, ever got to feel.” Her voice was sharp as steel and struck right through him. Goddamnit, Hoster, you bastard, you’d be so proud of her now. Her father’s daughter, never overly bold, but she always knew exactly where to strike.

“I know about Varys, Catelyn.”

She visibly paled at his words and looked as if she wanted to say something, but he never gave her the chance. “I know he came to talk to you and Ned. I don’t know what he told you or what he wanted to know. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he found you and a month later Ned died. That doesn’t seem like a coincidence to me, and I know you feel the same way.”

There was a silence that stretched between them and he could feel her indecisiveness radiating from her.

“If I come with you, everything Ned and I have strived to do for our children will have been in vain. You’ll just throw them head first into a world they won’t be ready for. A world I never wanted for them.”

“Will they be ready for it when it comes knocking on their door? If you think you’re safe here...” He paused and took his briefcase from where he had left it at the foot of the table. “I can keep you safe in Winterfell.” Brandon opened the briefcase and extracted a polished mahogany box. “If you don’t want to live in Winterfell, then go to your father at Riverrun, but please don’t just stay here.” He grabbed on to the wood tightly enough for it to dig into his palms before he put the box on the table, sliding it forward just a few inches until it rested in front of her. “Cat, let me help keep you safe.”

Catelyn glared at him. “I don’t want that thing, Brandon. Why did you bring it with you? Why do you still have it?” Her hands were placed firmly on the table as she refused to even look at the box.

“Because it was a gift. Is. My gift to you.” He grinned at her, but she didn’t seem charmed. She never did. “I kept it because it was a finely made, expensive gift. It would have been a shame to throw it away.” He wanted to say, because I kept staring at it, trying to figure out what I did wrong. What I did to make you and Ned leave me.

“Do you remember, Brandon, what you said to me?” Her tone wasn’t accusing, wasn’t even cold, just tired and a little melancholic, but he flinched nonetheless. She let her eyes rest on the box and ran a finger over the polished wood, her face so soft and disappointed it made him want to hide under the table in shame. “When your twenty year old fiancée came to you and told you she’d just shot three men to protect herself and her siblings, you said...”

_“Good aim.”_

They had thought it a good idea to leave Catelyn, Lysa and Edmure with the Freys, and they had promised to keep them safe. It had been Brandon’s suggestion, but Hoster had agreed. “I said, ‘Good aim.’ I remember that.” He was never going to forget it.

“Yes, you said, ‘Good aim.’ I was twenty and I had shot the men who’d tried to rape my sister in front of me, and you said, ‘ _Good aim_ ’. Father looked like he was almost proud, and I remember he said,  _‘It gets easier.’_ But I didn’t want it to get easier.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but it broke his heart all over again. “I think Ned must have heard Father say that. A few days after it all happened, after we had already decided to break our engagement, he found me in the garden and said,  _‘Killing a man should not get easier.’_ I don’t think I’ve ever cried like that before.” Her eyes were unfocused and so blue it ached to look at her.

He couldn’t say anything to that. There was nothing to say, because the apologies would be twenty-six years too late.

“Cat, please come to Winterfell. I can keep you and your children safe.”

“Why would you bother?” She didn’t sound angry or weary, just curious.  _Why would you bother?_  It echoed in his head.

“Lannisters always pay their debts, but Starks keep their promises. I promised Lyanna we’d all grow old together. I promised Ned I’d be a good man. I promised Benjen I’d be kind. I promised I’d protect you.” The laughter that escaped his mouth wasn’t his, wasn’t supposed to be his. It was the laughter of a bitter, old fool. “I don’t think myself a very good Stark, Cat, but I want to fulfill at least some of the things I promised.”

She didn’t respond, and for a long while, they just sat there in a pensive silence. Finally, she grabbed the box off the table and placed it in her lap. Then Catelyn looked him in the eye and he thought he almost saw her smile.

“It was a great gift.” Coming from her, it was a benediction.

“It was, wasn’t it?” Catelyn did smile at that, and just for a moment, Brandon felt as if the world weighed far less than usual.

 

***

 

_November 15/17, 2012,_

_Robb Stark._

 

***

 

“Since when do we have a choice whether we get to move or not?” It had been Arya’s question, but it had been on the tip of Robb’s tongue as well. While they had been asked about where they wanted to move before, he couldn’t ever remember actually having been asked if they wanted to move at all.

But now their mother had sat them down to have a ‘family meeting’—except Father was dead and there was a man he barely knew sitting at the table with them. This man, a stranger really, had asked if they wanted to move to the Winterfell Manor with him. Apparently, that was where Father had been born and raised, it was where they were supposed to live, because they were Starks.

When the stranger, Brandon, had come into their Rosenheim house and introduced himself as their father’s older brother, they had all eyed him with the proper amount of distrust such a statement warranted, but in three weeks’ time he had managed to charm his way into Sansa’s good graces, had impressed Bran with ridiculously entertaining tales of their parents’ youth, and miraculously, he’d even gotten Rickon to like him to some degree. While Arya wasn’t as taken in by their mysterious uncle as Bran and Sansa, she’d became fast friends with his dark haired shadow, Jon. Apparently, he was a cousin they’d never met before.

Robb hated the whole situation with a fierce passion.

The family they had never gotten to know was now interested in meeting them, in living under the same roof as them, and their mother was a-okay with it. Brandon and Jon had made Winterfell seem like the most perfect place on Earth, and slowly, but surely, both his sisters and his younger brothers had started thinking about how great it would be to live there. Even Sansa.

“Robb, it all sounds so nice. I realize most of it might not be true, but what if some of it is? I think maybe I’d like to find out,” she’d told him later, after their ‘family meeting’. Sansa had looked so hopeful when he’d confronted her about leaving for the States that Robb had been unable to bring himself to persuade her otherwise.

Sansa had always loved those cheesy movies that talked about homes and growing roots and how wonderful it would be to grow old in the same place, with the same person by your side. She dreamed about rose bushes in front of a big house and a white picket fence. It had always been something dangled in front of her, but never within her reach, so of course she would jump at the chance to have it now. He understood, he did, but...

Robb didn’t think Arya and Bran remembered much about how things had been seven or eight years ago, and even if they did remember it all, did they realize the implications? Robb and Sansa, though, they remembered everything—claiming their surnames were Turner or Jones or Tyler. Only recently did they start to use Stark, but even now, Robb didn’t think that any of their parents’ official papers had that name printed on them. 

When he and Sansa had been little, they had used to crawl into each other’s beds and lie awake at night, making up all sorts of theories about who they really were and why they kept moving from place to place. Sometimes, they’d asked Mother and Father, but all they had gotten in response were pinched expressions and far off gazes, as well as a quick and radical change of subject. After a time, they had stopped asking and they’d even stopped making theories. Maybe some secrets were not meant to be known, maybe their parents would eventually tell them.

Robb had eventually stopped thinking about it. And when he’d finally enrolled into university under the name of Stark, he had been relieved, but had never quite been able to shake off the feeling of dread that came from using Stark after so many years during which he was programmed against it. He didn’t think of himself as a pessimist by nature, but even when things were at their best, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that they were just waiting for something, or someone, to find them.

And now they’d been found, and Sansa was so eager to let herself believe it was a fairytale come true, and Robb...he just felt so stupidly, impossibly betrayed.

They were going to leave, they were going to move to a different continent, and Robb was going to be left behind.

“I know that look.”

Robb had decided he needed to get away from home for a couple of hours and had brought his fiancée out on a date. Now, Jeyne was sitting across from him at a restaurant table, looking ever so lovely, and Robb felt a tendril of guilt seep into his stomach. He’d been preoccupied all evening, and Jeyne had been neglected in favor of his jumbled thoughts. Jeyne closed her eyes and sighed quietly as she continued speaking. “This isn’t just a date, is it, Robb? I know you better than that. You’re going to tell me you’re leaving, right? That you can’t stay here with me while your family is moving halfway across the world.”

Robb closed his eyes, pained. “Jeyne, I’m sorry, but I...”

“...can’t.” She smiled as she said it, but the corners of her mouth were strained.

Robb could only remember fighting with Jeyne once. It had been about six months into their relationship, and it had started because Robb had canceled something last minute. Mother had called and told him that she had to come to Munich to take care of some business, and Bran had wanted to come with her to see Robb— _Would it be too much of a bother to look after him for a few hours tomorrow?_

No, how could it be? He’d agreed without thinking about it, and later, when he’d met up with Jeyne, he’d told her he had to cancel their date.

“No, Robb! We’ve talked about this! You’re supposed to meet Elenya, remember?” She hadn’t even raised her voice, but the words had come out fast, as if she would have lost her nerve if she didn’t say everything at once.

“But I can’t, I promised my mother...”

“You promised me first! And I understand putting family first, Robb, I do. I understood last week when Sansa wanted to spend the weekend with you, I understood before that when Arya insisted you take her to that football match, and the time before that! I just wanted you to come with me and meet my sister.” There had been a lot of things to say to that, a lot of different compromises he could have suggested. Instead, what had come out of his mouth had been...

“I’m sorry, but I  _can’t_.”

Robb had regretted it the second he’d said it.

“You just love saying that to me, don’t you?” Jeyne had commented lightly, but Robb had seen the disappointment on her face and he’d felt like begging for her forgiveness.

But the words had gotten stuck in his throat, and he had been unable to figure out how to begin.

In the end, he hadn’t had to. She’d closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. Her hands had been fisted at her sides, fingers almost white with the pressure. She’d exhaled slowly before she had looked at him, and it was as if all the anger and the disappointment had ran out of her like water, and she had been left feeling cleaner and calmer in their wake.

“You know what? Go with your brother, you can meet Elenya another time. You wouldn’t like her much anyway. She’s the brattiest thing.” Jeyne had smiled as if everything was fine again and had pretended her eyes hadn’t shone wetly with unshed tears, so Robb had followed her lead and smiled as best as he could. He’d told himself that he would never again be responsible for making her look so unhappy. He hoped he had succeeded. He still told her,  _‘I’m sorry, I can’t,_ ’ too many times to feel any good about himself, only these days she would just smile and sometimes gently scold him for it.

And now, he’d done it again.

“I won’t stay there long, just a few months. I don’t think I’ll even like it much, but I just can’t let them go alone.” He needed her to understand that this was something he had to do. It wasn’t about leaving; it was about making sure his family would be okay and not trusting anyone else to do the job properly.

In the end, he didn’t have much explaining to do, because she understood.

“Planes do exist, Robb,” she had told him before they ended their date. “I can visit, you can visit. And there are things such as phones and e-mails and webcams. And it’s not forever. Some people manage to carry on long-distance relationships for years, this is only for a few months, right? We’ll be fine.”

Robb had loved her so much in that moment. He’d loved her for everything; for smiling when she’d said it, for being sweet and kind, and for looking at him with far more trust than he had in himself.

When he retold his plans to his mother, she’d protested against it at first.

“But your place is here with Jeyne! I thought you would be glad that Sansa is finally leaving you alone and...” She trailed off as she looked out of the window. He followed her gaze and found Arya sitting with Brandon and Jon on the little bench in the garden. She was laughing at something Jon had said and Robb thought he hadn’t seen her smile since their father died, much less laugh. “Why would you want to leave, Robb? You have a life here.” Her voice was so quiet it tempered his rising anger.

“Because I’m not stupid, Mother. I’ve always known we’ve been running from something. We all did, but it was never something we said out loud.” He tried to keep his frustration from seeping into his tone, but this had been years in the making. “We were running, and then suddenly we stopped. Almost stopped. I don’t know what made you decide it was better this way, but whatever we’ve been running away from has found us. And I can’t let you leave with him when I don’t trust him,” Robb said, looking pointedly at Brandon. The, Father wouldn’t have, was left unsaid. 

Catelyn looked as if he’d just taken a hammer and smashed her entire world apart, and Robb could feel the guilt building inside of him, but he was not backing down from this. Had waited years for this.

“You’re right. We did run, but it was not Brandon we were running away from.”

“What, then?”

“Things I can’t protect you from anymore.” Her mouth twisted into a pained grimace, and Robb just noticed how glassy her eyes were. “I don’t think I ever could. When your father and I got married and left our families behind, it was because we were twenty years old and grieving, and we didn’t know how to fit into our lives anymore. We thought that if we ran far enough, and hid well enough, we would be safe. And it worked for a while. Then we realized that it didn’t matter where we hid; some things you just can’t hide from. That’s when we decided to start using the Stark name again. By then, it was only a matter of waiting for the inevitable to happen. We kept moving from city to city in the hopes of delaying it for a little while, but...” Cat trailed off again, hesitant as she looked at her oldest child.

“Mother, please stop being vague. Can’t you just tell me?” Robb had been waiting for these answers for as long as he could remember. He wanted something concrete.

“I’m talking about fate. Destiny. Things that are supposed to happen a certain way will happen.” Her lips quirked, but it wasn’t a smile, it was so far removed from being a smile that it made his heart clench. “There’s an entire underground system of tunnels under Winterfell. It goes in three different directions: towards the nearest airport; the nearest harbor; and the far edge of the nearest woods. During the twenties it was used to smuggle alcohol in and out without anyone noticing. It was also used to smuggle guns and ammunition. It’s still used for that—the Stark family has always made the bulk of their money through gun trade. But there are other things as well.”

It took her a while to explain what those ‘other things’ meant. It meant learning about drug dealing, robberies, and forgeries. The Stark family was renowned for arms dealing. They supplied the Night’s Watch with guns, ammunition and even the occasional bomb. In turn, they received a share of the Night’s Watch profit. The Night’s Watch, who were _paid assassins_! For God’s sake!

Robb wasn’t naïve enough to think that the world at large was a nice, happy place; but his world had been. They might have moved from place to place, and they fought; Arya pulled Sansa’s hair and Rickon wanted to bite off your arm if he didn’t like you, but they had always been undeniably happy. Paid assassins existed, but not in Robb’s world. Then he thought about Jon. Jon, who looked so much like his father, Jon, who made Arya laugh and who just fit so well into the picture.

When Robb and Sansa were younger, they had kept making up all these wild theories about who the Starks really were.  _Spies_ , Robb had said, because it had been fun to imagine Father in Roger Moore’s tuxedo.  _Exiled nobility_ , Sansa had claimed, because she was determined to make everything as romantic as possible.  _Mobsters_ , he’d said once, because he’d seen the Godfather a week before.

He wanted to laugh now from those memories, but managed to suppress it. This was all so surreal. What are we getting ourselves into? He wanted to ask. Robb tried to imagine Father cutting off the heads of horses and placing them into other people’s beds and he almost did laugh at that. He had an image of his father in his head, and it didn’t include a pinstriped suit or a gun at his side. But then he thought about Brandon and Jon, with their dark, tailor made suits, and yeah, he could believe it. 

He’d always suspected deep, dark secrets, but it was one thing to make wild theories and another to be told he came from a family of paid assassins and organized crime. He didn’t want that for himself, and he wanted it even less for his siblings. Mother looked on the verge of crying when he said as much.

“Robb, I don’t want that for you either. I would have been happy if I never had to see any of them again. But Brandon is right, we’ll all be safer in Winterfell.” It was as though she thought if she just said it enough times, it would finally ring true to her ears.

“Safer from what?” He couldn’t remember his mother ever looking so scared, at least not until now. It was a hypothetical danger that she hinted at, and it frustrated him and alarmed him at the same time. If she was willing to let herself get dragged back into something like this, what danger already existed for them here? Now he knew for sure that his decision to leave was the right one.

Catelyn didn’t answer his question. He tried a new one, hoping it would erase the uncertainty from Mother’s pretty features.

“What is Winterfell like?”

“Cold.” She wet her lips and ran a hand through her hair. “It’s huge and made of thick stone. The rooms have tall ceilings and they never get quite warm enough, but I think you’ll all like it. Brandon told me once that only Winterfell can truly feel like home to the Starks.”

_Home to the Starks._

He wanted that. All of them—Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon—wanted a place they could truly call home.

Home to the Starks.

Only, Robb didn’t feel much like a Stark anymore.

 

***

_January 3, 2013,_

_Franz Josef Strauss Airport, Munich,_

_Catelyn Stark._

 

***

 

Catelyn Stark had spent much of her life traveling. From Dublin to Aberdeen because her mother’s parents wanted to spend time with her. From Dublin to New York to San Francisco because her father wanted her to meet with the important American families. From the Winterfell Manor to the Twins, because surely, she would be safe with the Freys.

From New York to London by plane, from London to Dover by car. From Dover to Calais by boat, and then to Paris by TGV. From Paris she’d traveled to Munich before moving on to Bratislava and the Lviv and Kiev, and then Moscow and Saint Petersburg—Ned by her side and so many people running behind them, always trying to catch up to them. From Saint Petersburg they’d moved to Helsinki to Stockholm, and this time, with a baby in her arms.

She’d traveled the world with her husband and her children at her side, and while she was always afraid of what could happen when she reached a new destination, Catelyn had come to associate the act of leaving with safety and security. Planes, boats, and trains were her homes so much more than their rented houses had ever been.

Before Saint Petersburg and a few weeks before she’d found out she was pregnant, Ned and her had been in Moscow and living in a shoe-box apartment with bad plumbing. It was only temporary, but everything in their life had been temporary at the time. She’d felt guilty for finding the place horrible, but she had never needed to learn how to make do without hot water always at her disposal. Their landlord had been a tall, hard-looking man with a gruff voice who’d spoken a choppy, highly accented English. When Ned had told him they wanted to rent an apartment there for a few weeks, the man had taken one look at Ned’s Hermes suede jacket and at the pearl earrings Catelyn was wearing before he burst out laughing. He’d given them an apartment, but as they left she’d heard him yell something in Russian behind them. Ned hadn’t understood Russian, but she had.

_You’re a long way from home, children._

Home. There was a plane now that was waiting for her, for Arya and Sansa, for Rickon and Bran and Robb. First class tickets, a one way trip to the States. It was supposed to take them to a home she hadn’t seen in twenty-six years. Catelyn had never been afraid of traveling, but this plane frightened her more than anything else had ever done, save for Walder Frey’s sons clawing at her clothes.

This plane was going to take her  _back_. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter, and I hope you all liked it. If you managed to read this far, wow, you're great. :) Once again, my beta was the lovely Hazel, who I will forever love for the all the dedication and work she put into this.


	3. Traitors and Liars

 

***

_January 4, 2013,_

_Swanson Hotel, Boston,_

_Asha Greyjoy_.

 

***

 

“You know, this would go a whole lot easier for you if you’d just tell me what I want to hear.” Asha’s heel dug a little deeper into the skin of Ryman Frey’s throat. Not enough to truly cause any harm, but enough for him to feel the pressure of her foot bearing down on him and the threat that it posed.

He was Asha’s hostage, in no position to fight her, and they both knew it.

There had been a party going on in the reception room of the Swanson Hotel that night—a high class, black tie affair, the kind Asha normally wouldn’t be caught dead in if she could help it. This time though, she had decided to take advantage of the opportunity it presented and squeezed herself into a tiny, black dress and Louboutin stilettos; all this effort in the hopes of getting Mr. Ryman Frey’s attention. She cleaned up nicely, she knew she did, and it had been no surprise when the man had approached her, interest evident in his beady, little eyes. Asha had been forced to grin and bear through an entire night of drunken come-ons and wandering hands, quietly reminding herself that it would do her no good to punch him in the face in the middle of the reception room.

“You seem familiar,” the idiot had mentioned once, while guiding her back to his room, “I think I might have seen you somewhere.”

She had panicked for a moment, thinking that maybe he wasn’t as stupid as he seemed: maybe he knew who she was, maybe he had recognized her, maybe she hadn’t played him as expertly as she had liked to believe. But it had only been a passing remark, as if the thought had left him as sudden as it had come. The man had been drunk and horny and thinking with his dick—couldn’t wait to get her out of her dress. He had invited her to his room and simply dismissed his bodyguard’s worries when the man had protested against Ryman being left alone with a strange, potentially dangerous woman. At least that one had had more sense than his employer, not that it had meant much in the long run as Ryman had insisted that he be left alone with his new conquest.

Once she had gotten inside, she’d excused herself to the bathroom where she had made a quick call to her men, all waiting patiently outside the hotel, ready for her signal. In a few short minutes, they’d been outside Frey’s penthouse suite and had quickly taken care of Frey’s security detail. Frey’s men had been taken by surprise, and the whole ordeal had gone down quickly and efficiently. Ryman Frey himself had been knocked out cold by Asha, and handcuffed to the railing of the balcony outside the suite.

That had been less than an hour ago. Now, Frey was conscious again and surrounded by her men, still alive, but only because he had yet to answer her questions.

“I don’t know what you want me to say!” He seemed so frightened that Asha could almost feel bad for him. Almost, because she was about ninety-five percent certain it was all an act, and Asha couldn’t afford to waste her sympathies on scum like Ryman Frey. He was her only source for the answers she needed. And she _would_ get them.

Asha was sure she had struck gold tonight. Ryman didn’t exactly have a very good reputation for keeping his mouth shut, and he was high enough on the Frey food chain to know the sort of information that Asha needed. Important information. She had thought he’d be easy to crack, but Frey was keeping his mouth stubbornly shut. Surprisingly so.

“Look, quit wasting my time. We both know you’ve got the intel I need.What the hell is old man Walder cooking up and how does it tie in with Tywin fucking Lannister? Don’t even try to deny it, I’ve got sources claiming the Lannisters are seething restlessly, though no one can say _why_ , and I _know_ Tywin has been in touch with several of your people lately—and from what I hear; Cersei has spent the better part of three months drunk and raging.”

Walder Frey had started buying ammo like crazy during the last three months at the least, and the Freys had started running across the country like a bunch of headless chickens. In the meantime, Tywin Lannister had recently spent most of his time on the East Coast—all of which promised nothing good, Asha knew. “Also, what does the whole thing have to do with Brandon Stark? He left Winterfell three months ago without his bodyguards. Instead, he brought his ninja nephew with him, and yeah, the kid’s a Stark, but he’s a member of the Night’s Watch first—they don’t get to just leave on vacations. Now, if you know anything about math, Ryman, you’d know that the appearance of ‘three months’ occurs too many times to be a coincidence So tell me, what the hell happened three months ago?” With Brandon Stark missing in action, the only person important enough to warrant Tywin Lannister’s personal attention was Walder Frey. The two _had_ to be planning something.

Something had triggered them into acting, but _what_? 

The most frustrating thing about the entire affair was that her uncles knew exactly what was going on, and they were deliberately keeping Asha out of the loop. For whatever ungodly reason, Victarion had finally agreed to meet with Euron. As far as Asha had heard, they’d even started being civilized to each other again.

Asha remembered the last time she’d seen Euron. The man had looked her up and down and told her, _“You’ll be useful soon enough_.”

They were both up to speed on the latest news, but Asha wasn’t, and it left a bitter taste in her mouth to know they were purposely keeping her in the dark. If only her father had been alive...

But Balon Greyjoy was dead and would remain so. After his death, Euron and Victarion had each refused to give up their claims as heads of the Greyjoy family, and neither of them were willing to even think about the possibility of accepting Asha as their leader. While she would have been more than glad to challenge their claims, she wasn’t willing to start a bloody struggle for power between the warring factions of her family, especially when Euron clearly had the upper hand. She would have to find another way to take her rightful place as the head of the family, but first, Asha had to find out what the hell was happening right under her nose.

Ryman Frey looked as if he’d like nothing more than to continue denying her the answers she knew he had, but Asha’s sharp heel on his neck was just as threatening as the gun she held casually in her left hand. Behind her, Qarl snorted a laugh.

“Better tell her what she wants to know, mate. I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side.” Qarl’s voice sounded amused, and Asha expected she’d see a lazy grin on his face if she had turned to look at her right hand man.

Feeling Asha’s heel press down a little harder, Frey decided to follow Qarl’s advice and finally started talking.

“Okay, okay! Tywin Lannister has been negotiating some kind of deal with my grandfather and the Boltons. I don’t know the details yet, it’s all hush-hush for now,” Frey revealed grudgingly. “Stark, though, now that’s another story.” He laughed as he looked at her with a smugness that Asha would have been more than willing to punch out of him. “You’re behind on your news, Greyjoy,” he taunted her. “Stark left to attend his brother’s funeral. Ned Stark kicked the bucket; that’s what happened three months ago. I’m surprised you didn’t know. I thought news traveled faster than that.”

Asha frowned. She was surprised she didn’t know as well. The death of someone like Ned Stark should have registered on her radar the minute it became news.

“So for the last three months, Stark’s been doing what? Comforting the grieving widow?”

No one knew much about Ned Stark anymore, and Asha could still remember her father trying to track him down after her two older brothers had died because of him, but it had been as if he had vanished from the face of the Earth, along with...

Catelyn Tully.

“Yes, that’s _exactly_ what he’s doing, right? He’s planning on coaxing Catelyn Tully back into the business,” Asha said, and then thought it over. Catelyn Tully had made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with their world anymore, but Stark obviously had something important enough to get her back in the game. Could it be...?

Asha glared at Frey. “ _Someone_ ,” she said, emphasizing the word with a little more pressure to his neck, “killed Ned Stark. And Robert Baratheon. It’s too much of a coincidence that they both died within a month of each other.”

Frey gulped under the weight of her heel. “You know Catelyn Tully killed two of my uncles and one of my cousins before she decided she’d much rather be a fugitive,” he managed to wheeze out.

Asha rolled her eyes. “That’s because they tried to rape her and her sister. Everyone and their parents know that story, just like they know the only reason it didn’t lead to another bloodbath was because she begged dear, old daddy not to go to war over it. So? What of it?” As a truce between the two families had been grudgingly settled, it had been decided to marry Edmure Tully to a Frey girl to seal the whole thing. The two of them had been young at the time, but they had been pushed together ever since—until they’d finally gotten married last year. Edmure and Roslin Tully seemed happily married, even though the events leading up to their marriage had been less than ideal. The old resentment between their families was still there, though, and it seemed to Asha as if it was just waiting for an opportunity to burst.

This seemed like the perfect opportunity.

Frey glared up at her. “So, it wasn’t us! We have to uphold the rules of the truce. If anyone ordered a hit on those two, it was the Lannister bitch!”

The Lannister bitch; Cersei Lannister. Asha could maybe understand Robert Baratheon—Robert Baratheon and Cersei had some kind of history, but it was all kept under tight wraps. Most people assumed her awful, bratty son was Robert Baratheon’s kid, conceived before he went to prison, because around that time Cersei had started lusting over the Baratheon family’s American business. Maybe by ordering a hit on Robert Baratheon, she was hoping to...what? It made no sense. What would she gain? An even better question was what she would have to gain from Ned Stark’s death? 

Asha removed her foot and placed it back on the ground before she took a step back from Ryman Frey. She had gotten some answers, but they had only lead to more questions, more dead ends. She turned around and walked back inside the suite. She felt Qarl follow her, but Hagen and Lorren stayed behind to take care of her hostage.

“Have you ever had to deal with any of Stark’s men?” Asha asked Qarl as she searched around the room for her phone. It was still in the clutch she’d had to carry around all evening.

“Can’t say that I have. Though I’ve heard they’re all _extremely_ loyal.”

“Hm, maybe so, but it’s a different kind of loyalty. It’s not like the kind between you and me and the others. Stark’s men aren’t loyal to him because they think he’s great. It’s more like they’re all programmed to be loyal to him because his name is Stark, and their fathers, and their fathers before them have all served the Starks. It’s an old family, and they still hold to most of the succession rules. The head of their house is always a Stark; none of the other branches of their organization would accept anyone else.”

They were out in the hallway now, and Asha was pacing back and forth in front of the suite’s door. She could hear no sound from behind the door, even though she had no doubt as to what was taking place behind it.

“Now that explains why Brandon wants Catelyn Tully back in business,” Asha mused aloud. “He’s nearly fifty, and while his list of conquests is impressive, he never settled down with a wife and kids. I’m sure he bet on Lyanna’s boy to take control of the family after his death, but the kid joined the Night’s Watch at fifteen, to walk in the footsteps of Benjen, his beloved, missing uncle. The Night’s Watch isn’t allowed any family alliance, so that plan went down the drain. Brandon Stark is the boss of a family that will only accept a Stark to lead it, and he’s not about to marry and produce an heir now. His younger siblings are either dead or missing, so no successor there. But if Catelyn Tully had any children with Ned Stark, they would be perfect for the position.”

Qarl snorted. “That’s bullshit, Asha. With no experience, they wouldn’t know how to deal with this world. They’d be far from perfect.” Qarl’s father was in prison for killing a cop, and his grandfather had been quite the renowned drug dealer back in the day. His whole family was so deeply rooted into all sorts of criminal activity that Qarl couldn’t even comprehend how a person would live _on the outside_.

Asha shrugged. “They could learn. Brandon Stark might not be a model of virtue, but he’s good at what he does. Great, in fact. And everyone always said the Tully woman was smart, much smarter than her brother will ever be. Besides, as far as succession rules are concerned, Catelyn is still the Tully heir. Hoster Tully never officially proclaimed Edmure as his successor.” It was something that everyone had just assumed would happen. Lysa Tully had married senator Jon Arryn and stayed as far away from her family as possible—she was no threat to Edmure’s claim. Still, Edmure probably didn’t feel very safe in his position now that his other, long lost sister had been lured out of hiding.

“Asha, what are you thinking?” Qarl questioned, his smirk predatory as he looked at her. 

“I’m thinking I need to find out everything I can about any possible Tully-Stark progeny. I’m calling Tris Botley. If anyone can dig up something about them, it’s him.”

A week later, Asha was sitting in her mother’s old apartment, reading the files that Tris had sent her. Ever since her father had died, Euron had taken control over Pyke. The Greyjoy family headquarters was a fifteen-story building that looked like it was about to collapse in on itself, but it was surprisingly sturdy—much like her father had been—and was still standing, if only just. Asha’s rooms had been on the twelfth floor, overlooking the harbor. She’d had no choice but to leave once her uncle had come back, winning over her father’s men with promises of more money than they could ever hope to spend in a lifetime. 

_I hope you aren’t getting too comfortable in my house, Nuncle..._

The information Tris had managed to dig up on the Stark children was surprisingly scarce and of little value. The two eldest had graduated at the top of their class, and volunteered at nursing homes during the weekends. They all seemed disgustingly perfect, and the only thing Asha found interesting was Arya Stark’s recurrent trips to a psychiatrist from age ten to eleven.

The Stark family had used several different names throughout the years, and Tris had only been able to track some of them down. Asha was sure there were more, and maybe there would be something interesting attached to one of those names, but somehow she doubted it.

Tris had sent her a folder full of pictures in different angles of each of them. Asha looked at them and tried to imagine the Sansa Stark she saw there holding a gun, or Bran Stark negotiating a drug deal. She could imagine a little whip-like thing like Arya Stark beating someone up, if only because of all the rage on her features—but then again, most of the pictures were fairly recent, and the girl’s father had just died. Maybe her rage would burn out of her in a year or so, leave her as carefree and pleasant as her pretty, older sister. Rickon was young enough that he could still grow up into a valuable asset, but as of now he was of no use. Robb Stark, however...

Asha grabbed her phone of the nightstand and dialed. He didn’t answer her call the first time or the second. The third time he answered only to hang up on her before she had the chance to speak, but Asha wasn’t about to give up. He finally answered after her sixth try.

“What do you want, Asha?” She found herself grinning broadly at his snappy, angry voice.

“Now, now, baby brother, that’s no way to talk to someone who wants to offer you a job...”

 

***

_January 8, 2013,_

_Casterly Rock Hotel and Casino, San Francisco,_

_Cersei Lannister._

***

 

“I don’t care that you’re in Spain! You need to be here with me! Don’t you forget that your first alliance is to _me_!” Cersei’s voice was like steel; hard and unyielding, her breathing ragged as she waited for Jaime to respond. There was only silence from the other end, silence, silence, and more silence. Cersei could feel herself growing desperately impatient in that stifling silence. “ _Jaime_ ,” she tried again, softening her tone as much as she could.

“Jaime, come _home_. Come home to me. I miss you, don’t you want to be with me again?”

“I can’t wait to be with you again, but I’m not allowed to leave. No matter what you say about alliances, you have to remember that I can’t just pick up and leave. Not anymore.” He was trying to be reasonable, but all Cersei heard was _no_.

“Fine! Stay there and rot!” She didn’t wait for her twin to reply before she hung up on him and threw her Blackberry across the room with as much strength as she could muster. It smacked into the wall with a satisfying _crack_.

How _dare_ he leave her alone in this?

Grabbing a half full glass of scotch from her office desk, Cersei stood from her chair and walked over to the large windows of her study. She took a good, long drink of the scotch to ease her anger, though its burn did little to soothe the pain in her chest. These days, the ache would always appear after having talked to Jaime. Cersei finished her glass in one go and walked back to the desk, ready to fill her tumbler again. Despite having bought it only last week, the bottle was halfway empty now. It proved that which Cersei already knew; that this week had been a horrific one, meant to crown the horrific three months during which she and her father had only spoken through biting, icy remarks. Tywin Lannister had never wanted his daughter as the future head of his family, but Cersei had fought tooth and nail for that place—and now, Tywin was planning something, she knew he was, but he was refusing to trust her with the information.

Reminding herself that her father still didn’t trust her only served to fuel the flames inside of her. Cersei clenched her jaw as she poured herself a more than generous amount of the expensive liquor, but someone snatched the glass away from her before she could close her hand around it. Turning around abruptly, she met the gold speckled, green eyes of Tywin Lannister.

“Isn’t it enough that one of my children insists on drinking himself stupid on every possible occasion?”

Blood rushed to her cheeks and she grit her teeth hard enough to hurt. A comparison with Tyrion was just what she needed now. The little monster was off managing his casino in Monaco and hadn’t been in the States in months, and right as she had almost forgotten he existed, Tywin just had to remind her of him.

“Daddy. You’re home sooner than I expected.” Making her voice sound calm and pleasant was no easy feat, but Cersei didn’t need to see her father’s eyes close off even more than they already were.

“Yes, it all went better than expected. It cost quite a lot, but ultimately, Roose Bolton’s own ambitions made it easy to negotiate with him. He’s eyeing that commissioner position with obvious interest.” Father sounded much too satisfied with himself for simply having managed to buy off a crooked cop, and Cersei frowned, wondering what the hell her father was trying to achieve.

“I called Jaime,” she said when it became clear her father wouldn’t reveal anything else. “He’s not going to be in the country until next month, so he won’t be able to come with me to Winterfell.” Facing Brandon was always a hassle, but facing him alone was even worse. She would bring Joffrey with her.

A darkness settled over Tywin’s features, bitter and venomous. Jaime’s continued choice to defy his father’s wishes was still a bleeding wound inside the elder Lannister, one that Cersei felt just as acutely.

“I trust you can control yourself during your stay in Winterfell. We don’t need an incident like the last one.” It wasn’t her father’s fault that he didn’t know the details of what had happened between Brandon and herself, but every time Tywin reminded Cersei of it, it only served to drive a knife deeper into the wound. It was this which had marked the beginning of their conflict.

“Don’t worry, Daddy. I’ll make sure to play nice.” She knew her smile was wicked as it showed off her pearly white teeth, but Tywin wasn’t impressed.

“Remember what I’ve told you. And try to find out whether Catelyn means to take her father’s place after all. I wouldn’t be surprised if it happens, that brother of hers and his Frey wife...” He made a face that suggested just how highly he thought of Edmure Tully. “Do not disappoint me. I know you charmed your way into Stark’s good graces once, you can do it again. After all, whatever he wants from you, I’m more than certain you can provide it.” That said, Tywin turned around and left, the door slamming shut behind him.

Cersei took a deep breath, but it was not enough to quell her anger, and in her rage she ran her arm across the desk in a sweeping motion, knocking everything clean off its surface. Paper was strewn across the room, the crystal tumbler shattered, and her pens and inkwell all crashed to the floor. Black ink and scotch mixed together as it splattered over the oak flooring, the nearby furniture, and her shoes and thighs. She regarded the mess with a cool detachment born out of the hottest, most passionate rage.

“Taena!”

Her maid came quickly and gave Cersei an easy smile even after eyeing the state of the room. “Oh my. What happened here?” The question was so carefree and amused that Cersei had to restrain the urge to smack her for it. 

“Clean up here, and make sure it’s spotless when I come back.” With that, she turned on her heel and left the room, intent on finding Joffrey.

 

***

_January 18, 2013,_

_Winterfell Manor,_

_Arya Stark._

***

 

Arya didn’t want to be anywhere near Cersei Lannister, but she didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. The woman had announced she would be visiting them as soon as she arrived in Winterfell, and there she was. She was one of Brandon’s... _friends_? Friends was a questionable word here, Arya thought, but she wasn’t sure what to replace it with.

Cersei had walked through the halls of Winterfell Manor as if she knew the layout by heart. There was always an undercut of tension when she was in the room, and Arya could practically taste the dislike that existed between Mother and Cersei. Brandon seemed more amused by it than anything, but even Arya’s uncle seemed to tread carefully when speaking with Cersei. It didn’t help that she had brought her bratty son along. Joffrey was undeniably handsome, but there was something about him that Arya didn’t like: a light in his green eyes; an edge to his smile. He looked dangerous and hungry, and he’d been looking at Sansa ever since they arrived.

Arya didn’t like it.

The Lannisters had been there since yesterday, having flown in from San Francisco to visit. Brandon had insisted they stay at the Manor for the duration of their stay, and Catelyn had agreed, even though Arya knew that her mother was fighting with herself to accept the presence of the Lannister woman under the same roof as her. It wasn’t notable in what she said or the way she acted—Mother was the most gracious host one could possibly hope for. She smiled and made polite conversation with everyone—but she kept her shoulders so straight and rigid, her body looked as if she was ready to leap and attack.

Ever since she had moved with her family to Winterfell two weeks ago, her mother had become a completely different person. It was as though a steel core was now inside of her, one that hadn’t been allowed to show itself before. Her mother had always been gentle and sweet, never raising her voice, not even the times she’d found Bran climbing to the roof of their house. But now, Arya would sometimes hear Mother and Brandon yelling at each other.

“It’s because they have different ways of dealing with things. They’re both grieving, and they’ve both gone through so many changes recently. They’ll come around,” her cousin, Jon, had told her a few days ago. He was possibly the best part about living in Winterfell, and the only one who ever told her things; like where their money came from and what Brandon really did for a living. The first week of living in their new home, the air had been thick with secrets, and it had seemed to Arya as if everyone was keeping them from her. It had been frustrating, to say the least, and she had quickly started asking questions.

Brandon said, _Talk to your mother._ Mother refused to answer. Robb changed the subject as quickly as possible. Bran shrugged his shoulders and said nothing, and Sansa said, _Mother will tell you in due time_.

Arya hadn’t wanted to hear it ‘in due time.’She had wanted to know now, because it felt like the whole world was in on some great joke that only Arya didn’t get.

Jon hadn’t wanted to tell her either.

“Tell me,” she had demanded. “No one tells me anything! Tell me _something_. I’m not a little kid, why can’t anyone see that? I deserve to know. Tell me what you’re hiding. _Tell me_.”Her voice had gotten louder and louder until finally it cracked and she had sobbed in frustration, all the while thinking, _Father would have told me. Father would have trusted me._

Jon had grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to him, and she’d hid her face in the crook of his neck. Later, hours later, Arya had looked at him and couldn’t help but think— _killer_. It wasn’t a slur; it was simply the truth. He was a killer, and Brandon was probably the same. She had thought about her mother and tried to imagine her as a Mafia wife, but was quick to dismiss the image that came to mind.

Now, sitting at the dinner table with her family, with Cersei and Joffrey, and Brandon, Arya thought that maybe her mother fit the role better than she had previously thought.

“Joffrey and Sansa would make a lovely couple, don’t you think, Catelyn?” Cersei’s smile was beautiful, but Arya saw the poison hiding behind it. The woman made her feel terribly uncomfortable.

Their two guests were to stay with them until the day after tomorrow, and Arya thought they couldn’t leave soon enough. Joffrey kept trying to charm his way into Sansa’s pants, but her sister had at least half a mind and refused him every time. She claimed she felt sick each time Joffrey asked her to come with him somewhere private. As excuses went, it was a pretty lame one, but now that Arya looked closely at her sister, she noticed how pale she was. Sansa did looksick. She had barely touched her food, and Arya could see there was a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead.

Mother looked first at Sansa and then at Joffrey, but didn’t say anything. She took a sip of her wine and set the glass aside with a small smile.

“Cersei, how is Jaime doing?” The question seemed harmless enough, but Arya saw the Lannister woman tense. Cersei pressed her lips together, but failed to hide the hurt, slightly angry look in her eyes.

“He’s fine. He is in Spain right now.” Unlike her mother, Cersei drank almost all of her wine in one go. Brandon managed to look both amused and out of place, his eyes darting between the two of them.

Joffrey didn’t share his mother’s discomfort. He talked to Sansa in a hushed voice, and Arya had no wish to hear what the hell he was saying to her. Robb was sitting on the other side of the table and had been glaring daggers at Joffrey the whole night. Joffrey didn’t pay him any attention, only leaned forward as he ran a finger through Sansa’s hair.

“Mother, I’m not feeling well. I think I should go lay down for a bit.” Sansa looked even paler than before, and Mother looked relieved that she was going to leave Joffrey’s company.

“Of course, sweetie. Do you want me to bring you any pills?”

“No, it’s fine. I think I just need to sleep it off.” Sansa got up and left the table, and Arya was jealous of her. She didn’t think she could spend any more time there. Maybe if Jon had been present, then she could have distracted herself by bothering him, but he had left the previous day, before the two Lannisters had arrived. Apparently, Cersei disliked Jon for reasons Arya had yet to discover.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Arya said abruptly. She didn’t wait for her mother to respond before she simply got up and left.

She had to come back, of course, but by then, maybe everything would be a little less awkward. Arya had no idea why her uncle and mother had agreed to let their guests visit when it was obvious they could barely stand each other.

Brandon probably does business with them.

Arya had some vague ideas about what kind of business her uncle did with the blonde woman, but something told her she didn’t want to know the details.

She went to the bathroom on the first floor instead of the one near the dining room, getting a little more time to herself that way. She splashed water on her face and looked at herself in the mirror. Really looked at herself, that is. In a way she hadn’t done in a long while. The image that stared back at her wasn’t very pleasant. It was a tired, drained girl with a much too thin face; a girl that looked both younger and older than her sixteen years.

Arya sighed wearily, looking away from the mirror.

Winterfell was a nice place, and she liked it there. The Manor was huge with finely furnished rooms and a labyrinth of hallways. Arya’s room had French windows that opened to a small balcony, overlooking the gazebo and the flower garden below. It was so much less crowded than all their other houses had been, but it still had that homey feel to it, and everyone, from Brandon to the servants, tried their best to make it feel like home to them. But still, there were moments when Arya resented them and all their efforts.

It wasn’t fair that they got to smile and laugh as though nothing was wrong, when nothing would ever be right again.

It was stupid of her. They weren’t to blame for Father’s death, she knew that, but...

A scream broke her out of her self-pity. High pitched and frightened. Sansa’s scream.

Arya tore out of the bathroom and ran to her sister’s room. It was nearby, only three doors to the left. She burst into the room and found Sansa kneeling on the floor, her hands clutching at her head as if in great pain, but Arya’s eyes were drawn to what floated above her.

Milk white mist and black ash surrounded Sansa, sweeping into each other and creating black and white patterns around her. The sickly, pale fog seemed to overtake the black ash, and Arya’s stomach churned violently. She ran forward and put a hand on her sister’s elbow to help her out, but when she touched Sansa, everything...

...Just...

...Stopped.

Then, Arya was _pulled_.

Her mind and her body were gripped by a force unknown to her. Her whole world was shaken and torn before it was rebuilt in an instant, and then, _BAM_!

She was slammed back into reality so hard she was left shaking from the force of it.

But she wasn’t in Sansa’s room anymore, she was in a crowd, in front of the Great Sept of Baelor. Her lord father was being executed, and there was Joffrey and Queen Cersei, and Ilyn Payne, and she’d _forgotten_ this! How could she have forgotten this?

She felt the pulling sensation from before, and _BAM_!

Arya was with the Hound, and they had reached the Twins so she could save her mother, she could try, she _could_ , but...

_BAM_!

The world had changed around her, and Arya had blood on her hands and blood on her clothes. Polliver’s blood. She had stabbed his stomach more times than she could count. The smell of his blood was so thick it should have been sickening, but she was used to it; Arya of House Stark was used to the smell of blood.

It changed again with another _BAM_!

She was in Winterfell. _Her_ Winterfell. The castle in the North she’d grown up in. Nymeria was with her, and Mother was gently scolding her for something. Robb was still alive, he was laughing, and she could hear him somewhere behind them. Bran was climbing the castle walls like he’d used to before his fall. Sansa was with Jeyne Poole. Father was alive. _Father was alive_.

_How could I have forgotten this?_

“Arya!”

She remembered summer snows and the godswood; the heart tree with its blood red leaves. She remembered stabbing a man, two, three with Needle in her grip.

She remembered, she did...but it was slipping away from her again...

“Arya!”

She remembered that she could change her face, she remembered the wolf dreams...She remembered...remembered...

“Arya!”

_Valar Morghulis._

“ARYA!”

**BAM!**

Suddenly, she was back in Sansa’s room, and she was crying. Catelyn was in front of her, looking just as worried as she’d been when Arya had broken her leg. Arya was numb with grief, with joy, with anger. How much time had passed? It felt like hours— _years_!—to her, but it could very well have happened in the span of a few seconds.

A lifetime of memories, all in the span of a few seconds.

“Arya?” her mother tried again, much softer this time.

“What the hell is wrong with your sister?” It was his voice that snapped her out of her daze. His voice; _Joffrey_. She was lunging at him before she even knew what she was doing. She wanted to kill him, wanted the satisfaction of ending his life like she hadn’t had the chance to do the first time. Someone had gotten to him before her, but now he was here, within reach. Joffrey—and Queen Cersei as well.

Arya punched him square in the face, but it was all she had time to do before Brandon grabbed her and pulled her back. She struggled wildly against him.

“Let me go! Let me go! He killed Father. They both did!”

“What is this child talking about?” Cersei turned to Catelyn, her voice a strange mixture of disgust, anger and... _fear_? She put a hand on her son’s shoulder and pulled him closer to her.

Arya scowled. The damned coward was actually letting himself be coddled like that.

“You killed Father,” Arya growled at him. “You had Ilyn Payne behead him, I know, I saw it. I _remember_.” She was certain of it, the memories clear in her head now, though they were starting to get foggy again, slipping out of her reach.

“Oh _Arya_ , I was afraid this would happen again.” Her mother looked heartbroken.

“Nothing happened. I just remember now. They had him killed, just like they had Mycah killed.”

“I’m so sorry about this. She’s done this before, but never to this degree. My Arya has a very...active imagination,” Catelyn explained, looking quite apologetic, but Cersei was not softened by her words.

“That’s a polite way of saying your daughter is insane and that you can’t control her!”

Joffrey sneered. “I should have hit you back with everything I have, you godforsaken brat.” The threat lost much of its bite, spoken as it was from the circle of his mother’s arms.

“I’m not crazy! I remember, that’s all. I remember everything you did. Sansa does too.” She hadn’t thought about it before the words left her mouth, but now she realized it was true. Sansa did remember, she had to. The black and white mists that had floated around her sister had been the trigger to Arya’s lost memories, they had to have been. Surely, they’d had the same effect on Sansa. “That’s why she yelled. I’m not the only one, she remembers as well. Tell them, Sansa, tell them you remember!”

Arya turned to her sister, but Brandon still had a grip on her shoulders, and she had to strain her neck to look at her. Someone had helped Sansa off the floor, and Robb was hovering near, looking a little lost as he regarded them both. Sansa had black tear tracks running down her cheeks where her makeup had smudged along with her crying. Everyone’s attention was on her, and she seemed to shrink under the weight of their collective gaze. Her sister looked terrified, as if she had stared into the face of death and have it stare back at her.

Suddenly, Arya didn’t feel so confident anymore.

“Tell them, Sansa,” she tried again, her voice soft and pleading. “Tell them.” _Please, please tell them_.

 

***

_Time: 8:43 PM,_

_Winterfell Manor,_

_Sansa Stark._

***

 

_Stupid girl, why did you have to say that, Arya?_

Arya’s face was open and pleading in a way Sansa had never seen it before. For the first time since Sansa could remember, Arya was placing her hope in her, but Sansa had to crush that hope.

“No, Arya. I don’t remember anything like that. I...” _Why_? “I tripped.” _Why did you have to say that?_ “I fell and it startled me, that’s why I screamed.” _Why didn’t you just lie?_

She couldn’t bring herself to meet Arya’s eyes, or Mother’s. She lowered her gaze and braced herself for the accusations that would surely follow. And follow they did.

“ _LIAR_!”

This was how the hurt of betrayal sounded, and it roared out of Arya like a booming storm.

Sansa didn’t listen to it, she couldn’t.

“There are no knights, Arya! No wolves, no nothing. It’s just a story you made up, and now you’re using it to make sense of Father’s death. But it’s just a story. It’s not real.” Sansa wanted to cry, but she fisted her hands tightly and bit the inside of her lip to keep her tears at bay _. I won’t cry here,_ she told herself, _I won’t cry._ She ignored everyone as she left the room with her back straight and head held high.

She walked the length of the hallway, heading towards the last room on the left. She didn’t hesitate before entering the room. There was no one living there, but it had been a girl’s room—her aunt Lyanna’s room, if she remembered correctly. Jon’s mom. A dead woman Sansa would have liked to know.

Robb would come talk to her as soon as he could, but she didn’t want him there, she didn’t want anyone.

There was a little vanity mirror on the far wall of the room, and Sansa walked over to it, sitting down at the small desk in front of it. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, taking in her red eyes, filled with tears, her too pale skin and the feverish blush that had spread across the bridge of her nose. What she wouldn’t give for her makeup kit right now, but it was in her room, where Arya was probably cursing her to hell and back.

Sansa had felt sick all day. Her head had been filled with a rhythmic pressure that had made her dizzy and nauseous at the same time. This had been the absolute worst way to end a terrible day, and the effects of it would haunt her all week.

In the mirror, she saw a scared, little girl; a scared, little girl haunted by a milk white shadow. It was shaped like a man, but only the barest contours of one. Sansa watched as something that might have been fingers—or maybe they were talons—reached out to her from the mirror.

“It’s not real,” Sansa told herself desperately.

“It’s not real.” She closed her eyes against the sight. “It’s not real.”

She could hear laughter, soft and deep, an old man’s laugh—like the rustle of flames. _Burn, burn, burn,_ it seemed to say in her head, a war drum that had nearly driven her insane all day. She would hear it late at night. She had heard it in school. With Robb in Munich, and during Father’s funeral. She heard it all day, everyday.

_Burn, burn, burn_ , his song rang in her head.

“It’s not real!” _Please, it’s not real._

When she finally opened her eyes again, she was alone. There was nothing reaching out to her, and Sansa breathed.

 

***

_Time: 11:15 PM,_

_Winterfell Manor,_

_Brandon Stark._

***

 

Cersei had been livid.

She had decided she and Joffrey had no place in the Stark Manor while that insane girl was there to throw accusations at them. She had taken their luggage and left for a hotel in the city. Brandon would have to go smooth things over with her tomorrow, but right now he was just relieved that she’d left.

And maybe a little disappointed.

Brandon didn’t like Cersei Lannister, not by any stretch, but even so, he had to respect the woman for her determination and fierce stubbornness. Sometimes, Cersei made him wonder what kind of woman Lyanna would have been if he hadn’t failed her, what kind of leader Catelyn would have made if the two of them had married. Cersei brought up so many what ifs in Brandon’s head that he couldn’t help but resent her a little.

Catelyn had apologized for the incident profusely, and now she was with Arya in her room. As far as Brandon understood, this sort of thing had happened before, years ago. Ned’s death had most likely revived Arya’s old defense mechanism, and she had found Joffrey and Cersei to be the perfect targets for her delusions.

Brandon frowned thoughtfully. Arya’s ravings might be a little closer to the truth than they were giving her credit for. There was no doubt in his mind that his brother’s death had been planned, but Cersei hadn’t had anything to gain from it. If Cersei had any hidden score to settle, it was with Brandon, not Ned. Still, the Lannister Lioness had killed people for far less than blood ties.

Maybe he should have refused Cersei their visit; it would have been the smart thing to do, but he’d owed her, and so he’d let them come. He knew she had only come to see what kind of plans Catelyn had now that she was back in the States, if she was back in this game of theirs and if she planned to make her children active players. He supposed Cersei had been right to be concerned about Cat’s intentions, especially since there was no love lost between the two.

Brandon sighed as he realized his previously good mood had left him. He found himself walking around aimlessly, trying to burn out the nervous energy inside of him. When he eventually reached his study, he couldn’t bring himself to go inside. It was supposed to be his, had been so ever since his father had died and he’d inherited his position, but it didn’t feel like it belonged to him.

Brandon had used to sneak in there when Rickard had been out of the Manor, and had sat in his father’s expensive leather chair, all the while dreaming of the day when it would belong to him. Everything about that room had been impressive and intimidating at the time; a lord’s solar that was eagerly waiting for him. Then he’d grown up, and it had become just a desk and a leather chair, just another room in the house, one that he would move into once his father stepped down as head of the family. But then, Rickard had gotten shot, and it had stopped being just another room and started being _his father’s room_. 

Lyanna would have laughed at him for thinking of it as such, and while she was at it, would have gleefully called him a brooding, old man. Ned might have understood the feeling, would have called it _Father’s room_ along with him. And Benjen...Benjen would have just changed the subject, because he’d never known how to talk to Brandon.

Brandon changed course and started heading towards the library instead. It wasn’t so much the books which interested him as it was the rather fine selection of cognacs he had stacked there.

The family library was set on two different levels, with a spiral staircase connecting them. It housed over fifteen thousand books, collected over the years by the generations of bibliophiles who had lived in the Manor. Brandon wasn’t one of them, but he could still appreciate the beauty of the library and the knowledge it held. The entire western wall was made out of planes of glass, and it showed off a lovely view of the garden and all the way to the oak trees surrounding the grounds of Winterfell. It was one of Brandon’s favorite rooms.

As he entered through the door, he found Robb sitting on one of the two velvet armchairs in front of the great window. He was staring at the chess board that always sat on the table between the chairs. Rickard Stark had tried teaching his children to play chess, with varying degrees of success. Brandon never thought out his moves enough, and Lyanna had lacked the patience for such a game. Benjen had never gotten a hand of the rules, but Ned...he had been great at it.

Brandon recalled sitting with Ned in those chairs and playing chess with him, losing again and again. He’d lost so many times that once he had gotten so angry, he’d overturned the chess board and stormed out of the room. Ned hadn’t said anything, hadn’t gone after him, but a few days later, he’d come to Brandon and said, “ _I could teach you_.”

Brandon had laughed. The idea of his little brother teaching him anything had seemed ridiculous.

Now, he didn’t know what possessed him to go sit across from Robb and ask:

“Do you play?”

Robb must have been taken by surprise, because he looked up with a start. For a few seconds, he didn’t say anything, merely watched Brandon, and it looked as if he was contemplating whether to answer or not.

“Yes,” he said finally, and his posture relaxed a little as he spoke. “Father taught me. He said he played it all the time when he was younger.”

“He did. He played with our father, and with me as well. Ned was very good.” Brandon looked at his nephew shrewdly. “How good are you?”

“Good enough,” Robb replied, his voice bristling a little, and Brandon knew Robb would have preferred ending the conversation entirely. This young man didn’t like him, and trusted him even less. That was good, though, it showed he had some sense. Brandon wouldn’t have trusted himself much either if he had been the one in Robb’s shoes.

“Tell you what, I’ll play a game with you, and if you win, I promise I will answer all of those questions I know you’ve been wanting to ask.” He put aside his plans of drinking and leaned back into the chair in an attempt to get comfortable.

Tully blue eyes looked at him skeptically, but he knew Robb wasn’t going to resist this. It wasn’t just that he was curious and distrustful; he was lonely, just as Brandon himself was. In the end, his desire for company won out, and Robb moved the first white pawn.

“And if you win?” he asked, almost as a second thought.

“If I win, you join your mother and me on a trip to New York, for a meeting.”

“What kind of meeting?”

“The kind where you get oriented on all the minor branches of the Stark family business, and where the heads of each branch gets to meet you.”

Robb’s grimace of distaste spoke volumes about his opinion on the matter.

“No deal. I’m only here for a couple of months, and I don’t want to meet anyone. I’m not here for you to try and drag me into all of this.” He didn’t seem as determined as he probably wanted to be.

If not Robb, then one of his sisters or brothers had to take up his role when he died, though Brandon had no intention of kicking the bucket anytime soon. Any one of them would have plenty of time to learn the ins and outs of managing and controlling the Stark network.

“Why are you here, then?” The question wasn’t meant to be condescending, only curious. Catelyn had insisted that Robb should not be made to take any part in this, had made it quite clear that she didn’t want her eldest anywhere near Winterfell, but if Brandon could get Robb interested...

It took a long time for Robb to answer, and they played in silence for a while, the question hanging between them.

“My family needs me here.” He sounded tired, much more tired than a twenty-five-year-old should sound.

“You have a fiancée back in Munich, right? Doesn’t she need you?”

Robb shook his head. “Not as much as they need me here. Now that Father is dead, it’s my job to help my family when they need it. And who will help Arya through her...difficulties? You saw her today. Father was Arya’s rock, but he’s dead, and...and...” He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. When Robb looked at him next, he was the same picture of calm that Catelyn always managed to portray, but Brandon could still see something very young and scared inside of him. Something sad and fragile. “Father wouldn’t have left them here alone.”

Robb didn’t have the Stark features, he was a hundred percent Tully in looks. Brandon looked at him now, and for a split second, he wondered if he would have been the same had he been born Robb Stark, son of Catelyn and Brandon, heir to Winterfell and the Stark Family.

Brandon respected Catelyn. He was fond of her, found her witty and beautiful, but he had never loved her, and still didn’t. Over the years, he had told himself he would have grown to love her if they’d married, but the opposite would have been more likely—growing to resent her over time, maybe even hate her. She hadn’t loved him either, didn’t love him, and he knew it. Theirs would have been a marriage of convenience and nothing more.

Brandon had known back then that she hadn’t loved Ned either, but he’d been so angry when the two of them left, it hadn’t mattered. He remembered being so very angry, and he honestly didn’t know what he would have done had either of them shown up in front of him. He had been angry for a year. Two. Five.

He was angry at Lyanna for dying and leaving him with her child. He was angry at Cat for leaving him, and at Ned for abandoning him. He was angry at Benjen for joining the Night’s Watch, and he was angry at himself for being unable to hold his damn family together. Before turning six years old, Jon had spent most of his time with Benjen at Castle Black on the other side of town, because Brandon didn’t want a kid under his roof, never mind a kid that would constantly remind him of Lyanna. But then, Benjen had gone missing while on a mission in Russia, and he hadn’t been seen or heard from again.

Brandon had been forced to take Jon in and start learning how to deal with him. Slowly, but surely, his anger had burned out of him and had been replaced with ghosts and regrets.

Brandon would have been a terrible husband to Cat and an even worse father to Robb, he knew that. And Robb may not look like a Stark, but there was so much of Ned inside of him.

“You are here because your family needs you and because you feel like you owe it to your dead father. That’s all well and good. I expected that, because that’s the kind of man your father was as well, and I always knew Ned would raise his children well.” Brandon moved his king, and Robb moved his knight in turn. “I have a question, though. I used to ask your father this.”

The light of the chandelier above them was bright, but it still leant a soft, yellowish glow to the room. It threw shadows across the planes of Robb’s face, made his skin paler, his face harder, his eyes bluer.

“What do you want?”

Brandon’s voice was loud in the quiet of the library, and it was almost like being back twenty-something years into the past. _I want Lyanna to be happy_ , Ned had answered once. _I want Benjen to be safe,_ he’d answered a different time, after Brandon had taken their then fifteen-year-old brother to a negotiation with a Nigerian warlord who’d desperately needed Stark weaponry. _I want you to be a better man than this!_ Ned had almost yelled the last time they had spoken, grief and rage and helplessness raw in them both, Lyanna’s shadow present between them even though her body was already six feet into the ground.

Robb didn’t answer. He leaned over the chess board and studied it intensely, and when he moved next, there was a small, satisfied smile on his face.

“Checkmate.”

Brandon almost laughed when he looked at the board and noticed that yes, his black king had been driven into a corner by a white rook and a white knight.

“Come with me to the meeting anyway,” he said and didn’t wait for Robb to speak before he continued, “I’ll still answer all of your questions, but come with us to New York anyway.”

Robb seemed as if he was about to protest, so Brandon added, “Your father was one of the most excellent marksmen I have ever met, and your mother always had a great head for business and politics.”

“I’ve never held a gun in my hand, and I don’t even know who or what the major families and houses are, much less their people. Mother has only told me the barest hints about any of this.”

“Some things can be taught. Others are in your blood.” Brandon shrugged his shoulders and smiled at him. “You’re a Stark, your place is here, not in Munich. At least think about it.”

Robb bit his lip, and while he seemed to be a bit unsure of what to say, Brandon was pleased to notice the heavy atmosphere from before wasn’t quite so present anymore.

“I’ll think about it. I won’t make any promises, but...” Robb got up from his chair, though he didn’t leave immediately, his eyes still drawn to the chess game he had won. “You still owe me answers, but not tonight.” From the tone he used, Brandon could tell he had meant to sound commanding, but Robb just looked too tired for it to have any effect. “I’m going to see how Sansa and Arya are doing. Good night, Brandon,” Robb said before he turned, leaving the library without waiting for a reply.

Brandon watched his nephew leave. When Robb was out of his sight, he found himself looking at the chess board. How lonely and defeated his little, black king looked surrounded by Robb’s white pieces. 

Brandon grinned at the thought, even as he pushed the king over to his surrender.

 

***

_January 28, 2013,_

_In a cab, heading towards Winterfell,_

_Robb Stark._

***

 

“Brandon and I had lunch together because he wanted to talk to me, not because he meant to show me how much he loves me, Sansa,” Robb said exasperatedly into his phone. Sansa had called him right after he’d gotten into the cab to head back to Winterfell. Apparently, she just couldn’t wait to hear what Robb and Brandon had talked about for such a long time. Robb had spent the better part of the afternoon with his uncle, but in truth; they had spoken little.

Ever since their midnight chess game, Robb found himself...not exactly liking the man, but curious about what he had to say. He would never really trust his uncle, but it was weirdly hard to refuse him when he made gun trading sound so reasonable.

“Give him a break, Robb. The man is trying as best as he can to make you like him. I know it’s not easy, but he means well and it’s clear he cares a lot about Mother.” Sansa’s voice was gentle and sweet, the tone similar to the one she used when talking to Rickon, and while Robb knew he should feel insulted by being treated like their wild, little brother, he couldn’t. The voice of reason in his head always sounded like that; like Sansa, reminding him to be kinder, less stubborn, more patient.

He wondered what she would say if she had known that he’d accepted to go to New York with Brandon and Mother. She’d find out about the trip, of course, but not about the meeting where Robb was supposed to greet some of the men their uncle did business with. He wondered if Sansa even knew what that big dream house and that white picket fence of hers hid behind its walls. Wondered whether someone had told her that their father had been a killer before being a husband to their mother, whether he should be the one to tell her the truth or if he should just protect her from it.

Sansa and Arya’s latest fight had rattled all of them greatly, but Sansa seemed especially troubled by it. She’d hid in Lyanna’s room for the entire night after Arya’s outburst, and while she had tried to act cheerful and refreshed the next day, there were visible signs of fatigue on her features. Even now, she refused to talk about it with Robb, and with that in mind, he told himself that there was no need to add another layer of pressure upon her slim shoulders. Telling her just what he was about to get himself into would only further worry her.

“I just don’t want to see all of you getting too close to the man and then be heartbroken when he disappoints you!” Robb tried to reason with his sister. They’d had this fight before, but he wasn’t in the mood for it now. Robb sighed as he felt a headache starting to take root.

“Have you talked to Jeyne?” Sansa seemed not to be in the mood either and changed the subject, but this new one wasn’t any better to him.

He talked to Jeyne often, but he couldn’t tell her half the things he wanted to and he had to skirt around certain problems. His fiancée was clever, though, and she knew him well. It wasn’t hard to figure out that Robb was hiding something from her, and soon enough, Jeyne would start to worry.

“I have. She says hello and that she misses everyone.” True enough—Sansa and Jeyne got along great, but Arya didn’t like her at all and treated Jeyne coldly. Bran didn’t know her all that well, neither did Rickon, but Catelyn loved her.

“I miss her too. I have to call her soon. Hey, Robb, what’s taking you so long? You should have been here by now.”

“Yes, I know. There’s a lot of traffic, and the cab is going pretty slow.” He must have said it a little too loud, because the cab driver looked at him in his rearview mirror.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, but I’m not going faster than this.” He looked about fifty-something and wore an old, worn out cap. If Robb had known it would take this long to get to Winterfell by cab, he would have just walked.

“Anyway, Sansa, I was wondering wha—” He didn’t have time to finish his sentence before he was thrown forward by a sudden brake and the force of an impact. All the air was blown out of his lungs in a second.

“Shit!” That was his cabbie’s panicked cursing as he stopped the car and got out.

“Robb? Robb! Are you still there? What’s wrong?”

There was nothing wrong, not with him. He was fine, his heart was pounding, but he was fine. 

“I have to go. I think my cab hit someone.” Robb didn’t wait for Sansa’s answer before he hung up on her.

He got out of the car to see what had happened, and was greeted with the sight of his cabbie being yelled at by a tall, dark haired young man. The leather jacket the young man wore was freshly torn on the left side, and in his hand he held a helmet that looked slightly worse for wear. His motorcycle was laid out between them, dented and obviously hit by Robb’s cab. There were cars driving passed them, honking all the way, but Robb only had eyes for the blood running down the side of the guy’s face.

“Are you okay?” Robb questioned the man as he hurried towards him to check how badly he had been hit.

“I’m fine.” The guy stepped out of reach, and Robb realized, mortifyingly, that he had raised his hand to the other’s face. “My bike isn’t,” he answered, looking at it pointedly with a mixture of disappointment and anger.

“But you’re bleeding,” Robb tried again, because there was a cut on the side of his head, right beneath the hairline.

“He wouldn’t be bleeding if he hadn’t cut me off like that. He just came out of nowhere. I didn’t even see him before it was too late!” The cab driver looked as if he wanted the earth to swallow him whole right there, clearly spooked by the accident. “Good thing I wasn’t going any faster! Do you see now?”

“Of course you didn’t see me, you’re ancient and you need glasses!”

What had started as the beginning of a headache was now threatening to erupt into a full-blown migraine as Robb found himself stuck in the middle of a shouting match. There was talk about insurance that Robb didn’t really pay attention to, and a lot of swearing—and what was Robb doing in the middle of this anyway?

He should just walk away. If the guy was capable of yelling, he would probably be fine. But Robb wanted to make sure. After all, his father would have made sure the guy was fine, would have checked up on him in a few days to see if he was doing okay. Even with the cut on his head, he had to be fine, right? And the cab’s brakes had obviously been working; they’d stopped.

“There has to be a hospital nearby, right?” The question wasn’t directed at anyone, but it made both men stop and turn to look at him as if he was crazy. The cab had been pulled to the sidewalk and parked there, right next to the motorcycle. The right headlight was shattered and the bumper was a mess, but overall, it didn’t look all that terrible.

“There’s a hospital about two blocks away,” the cab driver responded mechanically.

“Fuck that! I’m not going to a hospital. I’m fine. I’ve had much worse.” Robb supposed he could argue with him and tell him all the possible ways he could die from a head injury, how it could have caused a blood vessel to burst. He remembered all those times when Mother had been scolding Bran for climbing tall trees and roof tops, the bits and pieces of information from that time Sansa had watched a show with doctors on Discovery, an episode of House with a similar premise.

In the end, Robb just breathed in deeply and looked straight at the other.

“Just let us take you to the hospital. It’s not that far away. _Please_.” It sounded softer than he’d meant for it to, and Robb fully expected the guy to laugh it off, but he didn’t. He looked about ready to run, though, his tall, lean frame tensing as though he was a bow poised to release an arrow. He held Robb’s gaze a little too long before exhaling and letting himself relax.

“Right. Okay. If you insist.” He smirked, and Robb thought it changed his whole face, making him look wicked. With the little trail of blood on the side of his face, there was a distinct resemblance to an action movie character. “You can even be my nurse, Red.”

Robb scowled at the nickname. “I don’t want to think about how you died because of me. It’s called being a decent person and it doesn’t mean I want to be anyone’s nurse.” He sounded like Sansa when she talked to Arya, and the way he rolled his eyes probably didn’t make him look very mature. “My name is Robb, and I’m sorry my cab almost ran you over.” The last part was said almost as an afterthought.

“Yeah, the circumstances of our meeting could have been better, but nice to meet you, Robb.” His eyes seemed almost black, and they shined mischievously as he held out a hand for Robb to shake. “I’m Theon.”  


	4. Hello

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never wanted to leave you guys hanging for so long before finally posting this! I'm terribly sorry about the long wait, but real life has been stressful [a combination of family issues, uni-related issues and as an added bonus, relationship drama.] 
> 
> I hope you'll all enjoy the new chapter. I know I'm excited to find out what you think about it.

***

_January 29, 2013,_

_Interpol surveillance van outside Café Royale, Barcelona,_

_Jaime Lannister_.

 

***

“But what is Illyrio Mopatis, of all people, doing here?” Jaime asked for the third time in a row. “Isn’t he supposed to be in the States making sure crooked politicians stay out of prison? And who the hell is this new guy?”

Jaime and Brienne had been in Spain for weeks, tracking down a high-profile drug-dealing ring that seemed to be connected to the Tyrells and the European branch of the Baratheon family. Their leader was American, Gerold Dayne, and Jaime had felt the budding start of a headache when he’d first heard the name. He knew all about the Daynes.

Since Arthur Dayne had died long ago at the hands of the _honorable_ Ned Stark the Daynes weren’t much of a threat to anyone. An upstart like Gerold Dayne, though, could be problem. The man was trying to make a name for himself abroad before he headed back to the States and started rebuilding his family. It had all been fairly clear-cut, until now, when Gerold Dayne hadn’t shown up at his usual café—right across the road from where Jaime and Brienne had parked their surveillance van to watch him. Instead, Illyrio Mopatis had shown up, and a few minutes later, a new guy had come along.

“The computer is running his picture through the database right now. If the guy’s got a record, we’ll find a match soon enough. Just wait a second.” Brienne was as composed as always as they waited for the Interpol database to come up with a hit.

Jaime liked working with Brienne much more than he’d first expected he would. She was competent and highly efficient, and if he had to be honest, he enjoyed her company as well. Her serious, crack-no-jokes demeanor had grown on him after a while.

He looked at the monitors the van had set up inside of it and studied the man Illyrio was talking to. He was tall, had black hair streaked through with silver and bronze-toned skin, and when Jaime zoomed in on him; he could see that the guy had a prominent widow’s peak. The surveillance camera was placed discreetly on top of the van, disguised as an ad-board, and looking at the image it displayed on his monitor, Jaime couldn’t help but think the man looked familiar.

“I found a match,” Brienne announced, but refrained from elaborating.

“Well? Who is he?” he snapped at her.

“This man seems extremely dangerous, Jaime. He’s linked to multiple charges of murder, though nothing has ever been proven. His name is Oberyn Martell, and he’s called  _la Víbora Roja_ , which is Spanish for—”

“The Red Viper,” Jaime finished for her. He knew that name. How could he not? He’d been hearing stories about it since he was five.

“Red Viper, exactly. From the Martell family, who...” Brienne started talking about the facts surrounding the Martells, but Jaime didn’t listen. There was a strange pressure on the back of his neck, and he kept his eyes trained on the monitors.

There was a woman there, in the middle of the street, with cars passing around and _through_ her, as if she was made out of air. A woman that seemed to stare straight into the surveillance camera, right at Jaime. A woman he knew, who watched him with black eyes that burned into Jaime like the blazing, red heat of the desert sun.

***

_Four months after the death of Joanna Lannister,_

_Lannister Residence,_

_Jaime._

***

Jaime woke up to gentle hands running through his hair.

“Momma?” he whispered, still half asleep.

“No, sweetling, I’m sorry. I’m not your mother.” It was a kind voice, a sweet voice with a foreign accent he couldn’t recognize. He opened his eyes and blinked to push the sleep away. When his vision cleared, he saw a woman sitting in the exact spot Mother had used to sit in when she’d come to kiss him goodnight. This was a stranger; an olive-skinned woman with black hair that hung around her face in lustrous curls. She had a sharp nose and high cheekbones, and she looked at Jaime like Mother sometimes had.

It made him think she wasn’t going to hurt him, so there was no need to call out for anyone.

“It was stupid to ask, anyway. Mom died.” He said it with a shrug, and the woman ran her fingers through his hair again.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, little lion.” There was a tremor in her voice, one that made Jaime’s heart ache for her. “I’ve lost people, too. My brother. My husband. I’ve lost my children.” She turned her face away from him, and he was overwhelmed with a peculiar sense of grief and... _guilt_? He didn’t know what to say to her, so he put his smaller hand on hers and gave it a comforting squeeze.

She sniffed and rubbed at her eyes before she turned to Jaime with a smile on her lips, her eyes rimmed with red.

“Would you like me to tell you a story, little lion? To help you fall asleep again.”

“What kind of story?”

“Oh, you’ll like it! It’s a story about dragons,” she answered, her eyes glimmering wetly with what might have been excitement, but could just as easily have been grief. It was hard to make out in the dark of the room.

“Dragons?”

“Yes, dragons, but lions as well, and wolves and stags. It’s about a princess from a faraway land that burned under the desert sun, and the foolish prince she married. It’s about knights, too. The bravest, most honorable knights you will ever hear of.” Her smile faltered a little before she continued. “And it’s got a king. An evil king, a mad king.” Her voice was shaking, but despite the tears in her eyes, she was smiling. Jaime couldn’t breathe while looking at her, but he found that he couldn’t possibly look anywhere else.

There was something painfully familiar, even those he was he’d never seen her before. He would have remembered her. But the nagging feeling in the back of his head urged him to search his memories for something about her.

But there was no time to think about that now. There was a story he needed to hear, even though it made something heavy and sour settle in the pit of his stomach.

“What happened to him? To the mad king?” he asked, wide awake and needing to know, because this was important, somehow, this was important.

“Don’t worry, little lion,” she said, her finger touching his nose. “A brave, golden knight slew him and ended his reign.”

Jaime swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat.

“My name is Jaime Lannister,” he told her, drawing his shoulders back like Daddy did when he met with his business partners. It made him look taller. Something about her made him sit up straighter and prouder, as if he owed it to her to be brave and strong, because he’d disappointed her once already.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Jaime.” She took his hand. “My name is Elia Martell.”

***

_January 29, 2013,_

_In front of El Palace Hotel, Barcelona,_

_Jaime Lannister._

***

Jaime was smoking a cigarette on a little bench outside his hotel when he felt her coming to him. He always knew when Elia was nearby; not because the air changed, the trees rustled, or anything that Hollywood would have people believe about ghosts, but because he always felt lighter and calmer when she was around.  
  
Brienne was in her hotel room, probably calling Interpol Washington to report their findings. Jaime was going to have to do the same soon, but he wasn’t truly eager to hear Selmy’s voice just yet. Presently, he wanted to smoke his cigarette in peace to clear his head. _Clear my head_. The choice of words made him smile a little, and he turned to look at his right, where Elia was sitting with her hands on her lap, her curls tumbling over her shoulders.

His head had never been properly clear; at least not since the night he’d awoken from a dream and seen Elia sitting on his bed. She was forever with him, never straying far from his side, and always talked in a gentle voice and looked at him with such fondness he sometimes forgot he was talking to a woman no one else could see. A woman that claimed she was a princess from a faraway land. A woman who’d died thousands of years ago.

“I saw him today,” Elia said, her face a picture of delight. “My Oberyn. Oh, Jaime, you brought me to my Oberyn. Thank you.” She was looking at him as if he was something magnificent. “Jaime, please tell me you’ll take me to see him again tomorrow. You could ask him if he remembers me. He _has_ to remember me.”

“Of course, that’s doable.” He crushed his cigarette on the side of the bench and stood up sharply. “I’ll just walk up to a Spanish mobster and say, _Hey, I’ve got a message from your sister, the one that’s been dead for years. You might remember her from a past life. Oh, by the way, did I mention that I am an Interpol agent_?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Elia. Even you must see the sheer stupidity of that.”

She looked shell-shocked at his answer. “Stupidity? This might be my only chance to ever get something across to him, Jaime, you must...”

“I _must_ nothing.” He lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Differences in occupation aside, making sure I’m regarded as a crazy person by the brother of a ghost’s has never been on my bucket list.”

There was a moment of silence. Barcelona at this time of night was full of noise; cars driving, honking, people walking past them, talking, laughing, shouting. They paid no attention to Jaime, standing in front of a hotel bench, talking to himself. There was a sudden gust of wind, and Jaime closed his eyes against it, keeping them shut for a second too long.

“But, Jaime, you promised me you would talk to him if you ever saw him.” Elia sounded devastated, and Jaime refused to look at her. He didn’t want to lay eyes on her only to see something that would make him change his mind.

“I don’t remember ever promising something like that.” Maybe he did recall something like that vaguely, but still, he refused to linger on the thought—if he couldn't remember any promises like that, he didn’t have to stand by it. He could refuse her and not feel like the worst kind of person.

It was getting cold outside, and Jaime turned around, meaning to go back inside when Elia’s voice stopped him.

“Do you want to know what _I_ remember?” The wind carried her low, lilting voice to his ears, the whispered words penetrating deep into his mind. There was an accent in her speech, the way she rolled her r’s and how she elongated her e’s. It would have been seductive, but this was the voice that had used to sing hymns in his head to calm the nightmares he’d had as a child. “I remember being ripped apart. I remember being shattered by your father’s men when they sacked King’s Landing. I remember my daughter’s screams as they dragged her from her hiding place. I remember how a monster bashed my son’s head against a wall. And then there was nothing.”

Jaime dared to look at her, only to regret it immediately after. She was looking somewhere far away, someplace lost to him.

“For years, there was nothing. I simply floated in the darkness, unable to remember anything. Not the taste of food, the feel of the wind, not even my own name, and yet in the darkness, I remembered his face.” Her lashes fluttered wildly as she tried to blink away her tears. “Then the darkness called out to me, it called my name. Oberyn was calling my name, shouting it loud enough to echo through all the seven damned heavens and hells. It pierced through everything, it jolted me awake. I remembered everything then, and I opened my eyes to call out to him, only to see my Oberyn being slain by the same monster that had killed me.”

It was as if her inner structure was about to collapse in on itself, and she alone was holding it up with the sheer force of her will. Elia’s hands were shaking, but she kept her shoulders pulled back and straight. Her lower lip was quivering, and her eyes were filled with tears, but she was keeping them back. She looked as if she was breaking apart, but her voice was steady in the face of her turmoil.

“After that, I walked the Earth for thousands of years. Sometimes I was seen and heard, but only by a selected few. I raged against the heavens, I screamed my curses, I cried and I mourned for so many years I lost track of them. So many people died and faded away around me, decades passed by in a blur, and somehow, I found it in myself to forgive the man who ordered the slaughter of my children. I sang to his child at night when he had nightmares, and I grew to love that child. And through all of this, I never saw my Oberyn.” She paused, and to Jaime it seemed as if she took a deep breath before she exhaled, but he knew it was little more than an act of habit. He knew that no air passed through her lungs.

“Do not deny me this, Jaime Lannister. I have never asked anything of you, but I will ask you this: let me see him again, talk to him for me. I cannot do it myself, I would if I could, but I am tied to you. Do not refuse me.” Some treacherous tears escaped and rolled down her cheeks, but she paid them no attention. “I love him, just as much as you have ever loved Cersei.”

The words were not accusing, nor were they judging him, they were merely a statement of facts. They weighted on Jaime as surely as a death sentence. He racked his brain for something to say to her, but there was nothing he could say or do that could possibly help her. _I’m sorry_ seemed just not enough.

“Jaime?” Brienne’s voice called out to him, and he turned around sharply to look at her. She was already in her pajamas, but she had donned on her dark blue pea coat over it. There was worry on her broad, ugly face, and Jaime was once again struck by the realization that he was miles away from Cersei, with this woman who was so different from the sister he had left back home.

He didn’t know how to feel about that.

“Were you talking to someone?” she asked cautiously. This had happened before—she had walked in on him talking to Elia, but most of the time she pretended nothing had happened. _To save my dignity_ , he thought bitterly.

“No,” Jaime said, and he knew Elia wouldn’t be there if he turned around now. She had vanished to whatever place ghosts hid in when they weren’t haunting someone. “I’m in the mood for Chinese food tonight,” he told Brienne, and smirked at the revulsion on her face.

“ _No_. You had that last time. It’s my turn to order.”

“God, you’re just going to feed me rabbit food again. I need more than just a salad if I want to make it through the night.” Brienne was a firm believer in healthy eating, while he was a fan of take-out and fast food. When they were together somewhere, they took turns ordering food and made a show out of how much they hated the other’s pick. Still, recently, Jaime found himself enjoying his vegetables much more than before, and even though he hadn’t converted Brienne to the glories of McDonald’s delicacies, he knew she liked KFC hot-wings more than she let on.

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” she responded drily, and Jaime laughed.

***

  
_January 31, 2013,_

_Winterfell,_

_Catelyn Stark._

***

When Catelyn had been a little girl, she’d had frequent nightmares. She’d wake up screaming and crying, clutching at her neck because she felt pain there, enormous pain that still didn’t come close to the pain in her chest.  
  
Her father would be with her when she woke up, looking at her worriedly and caressing her face to calm her.

“What is wrong, little Cat?” he would ask her.

“I dreamed of him dying,” Catelyn had answered through her sobs.

“Who was dying, dear?” Father had always worried about her nightmares, but it wasn’t her he was supposed to worry about.

“The king. The king, he...” She had closed her eyes and tried to visualize it as she had seen it in her dreams. Catelyn had dreamed about him so often, and in her dreams, she knew him; the contours of his face and the blue of his eyes, but when she had woken up, it had all began to blur until it just wasn’t there anymore.

In her dreams, he’d always been dying, like others had died as well. Two little boys had died before him, a wild little girl with dark hair had disappeared, and a beautiful girl was lost to her in the midst of a war. Every night, Catelyn’s heart had been so full of grief and pain it had threatened to rip her apart.

They had all died, and she had loved each one of them so much it was impossible to put into words. In her waking hours, she hadn’t been able to remember their names or their faces, but she had remembered loving them, and hurting for each of them as though parts of her were torn from her body.

“Sweetheart, it’s only a dream,” her father would tell her. “It might be a terrible dream, but it’s only in your head. No one is dead, and no one is going to die because of your nightmare. It’s not real.”

The love she had felt, the hopelessness, and the all-consuming pain and anguish—they were real, they had felt real. If they had only been illusions of her sleepy mind, Cat had feared what the real thing could possibly be like. Still, she had wanted to believe her father, she really had.

It’s not real, she’d begun telling herself, a mantra that had helped her feel safe. It’s not real.

Eventually, the dreams had started to come less and less, until they’d finally stopped around her thirteenth birthday. Maybe the nightmares had come back once every few years, but that was it. They had stopped tormenting her, and she had stopped thinking about them.

Until that night.

She woke up from it with a start, tears streaming freely down her cheeks, feeling sick to her stomach. Catelyn ran to her bathroom on shaky legs, barely making it into the room before she vomited into the porcelain bowl. There was a nauseating smell of blood lingering in the air, even though she was awake.

Sleep wouldn’t come to her again, she knew, so she put on her robe and exited her room, heading towards the kitchen, intent on making herself some coffee. Their plane would be leaving tomorrow at 10:00 AM, to take them to New York, and Cat thought it must have been what had triggered the nightmare; the nervousness she felt about the trip. Edmure was living in New York with his Frey wife, and even her uncle Brynden had been in New York for the last week or so, and he didn’t have to return to Ireland for at least another month.

She hadn’t seen her brother or her uncle in such a long time; she wondered how they would treat her. Catelyn had tried to call Lysa a few days ago, but her sister’s maid had told her Mrs. Arryn had no interest in speaking with her. It had hurt, more than she’d thought it could, and it made her weary to see Edmure and Brynden. What if she arrived there with Brandon and they looked at her like a stranger might? Catelyn absolutely refused to think about how her father would treat her.

Hoster had always doted on her, Edmure had used to look up to her, and Brynden had treated her as if she was an adult, had taught her how to shoot a gun and how to defend herself. What would they say to her when they saw her now?

As she entered the kitchen, she was met with the sight of her oldest daughter sitting quietly by the kitchen table.

“What are you doing up so late, Sansa?” she asked her daughter as she took a seat next to her. Sansa had a glass of water in front of her, and she was still dressed in her everyday clothes.

“I couldn’t sleep. I stayed up with Robb for a while, he is worried about tomorrow.” Sansa’s arms were crossed on the tabletop, and she let her head fall forward to rest on them. “He hasn’t said he is worried, but I can tell. He’s Robb; I know when he’s not telling me things. I didn’t push, though.” Sansa raised her head to look at her mother with eyes that understood far more than anyone gave her credit for. “I’m used to you keeping secrets, but I’m not used to Robb keeping them, especially not from me.”

“Sansa...”

“Are we safe here? Should I worry about him?”

Catelyn thought about how to answer that, not really sure what to say.

“No, you shouldn’t,” she said finally, praying she hadn’t jinxed it now.

“Good.” Sansa relaxed and smiled tiredly. “I hoped you would say that. I’m not going to badger you for answers—I know when to push, and I know when to back off. If you don’t want to tell me now, I can wait. I just want you to know that I’m not as stupid as Arya likes to say I am.”

“No, of course you’re not, Sansa.” Catelyn reached out and ran her fingers through her daughter’s bright, red hair. “I want to give you something. A gift.”

She led Sansa back to her room, the one on the top floor that overlooked most of the estate. Brandon had given her that room because traditionally, it always belonged to the woman of the house. She was now Lady Stark, for better or worse, and he had said she deserved it.

Catelyn walked over to her vanity table and picked up the mahogany box that was innocently placed on top of it. Without saying a word, she handed it to Sansa, desperately praying she wasn’t making a huge mistake.

Sansa opened the box and gasped.

“Mother, where did you get this from? Why do you have it?” Sansa questioned, and Catelyn could hear the barely restrained panic and surprise in her voice.

Inside the box, housed in a case lined with silver and grey velvet, there was a semi automatic handgun. It was custom made and beautifully decorated; a silver wolf engraved on the grip. It was a finely made gun, easy to hold, light, and it had probably cost Brandon a fortune.

“It was my engagement gift. Some women get engagement rings, I got a gun,” she explained, keeping her tone calm and neutral.

“Daddy gave you a gun?”

“No. Brandon did.” Sansa looked at her wide-eyed, but didn’t say anything. “That gun has four older brothers. Rickard, your grandfather, had them especially made for each of his children, and when I became engaged to Brandon, he had one made for me. It was a ‘welcome to the family’ gesture from him.” She stopped, took a deep breath, and thought about how she should continue the conversation.

“Mother...” Sansa started to say, but Catelyn couldn’t let her speak. She had to say this now, needed to say it before she could reconsider.

“I want you to learn how to shoot it. Tomorrow, a man named Rodrik Cassel will come to take you to the shooting range, and you will start learning how to handle that gun. I’m sorry for this, it’s not something I wanted for you.” Catelyn hadn’t wanted to learn how to shoot either, had resented Brandon a little when he’d given her a gun instead of an engagement ring. But she’d learned, and that gun had been with her when she had been at the Twins. Sansa had to learn how to keep herself safe.

“Have you ever...used it?” The question was barely heard, but it rang loud in the quite that hanged between them.

“Yes. Once.”

Sansa nodded as if she understood, as though she was trying to, even though she had unshed tears filling her eyes.

“Why give it to _me_?” Her voice was shaking and choked, pleading. “Why not _Arya_?”

“Because I think Arya wouldn’t be afraid of it.” Her youngest daughter would have enjoyed the power that came with wielding a weapon; she would have been a disturbingly good shot. Catelyn wanted to hold that off for as long as she could.

“Does Robb...? Wait. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know that yet.”

Cat had sent Robb to Rodrik Cassel as soon as he’d told her that he was going with them to New York. If Robb was going to get himself tangled up in this, he’d better start acquiring the skills he would need. It made her feel sick to think that the children she had tried so hard to protect were going to have to live life like she had from now on. But what other choice did she have?

She closed her eyes and remembered Lyanna Stark. Cat had never gotten to know her very well. All she remembered was a tall, young woman with a wolfish smile and a mischievous light in her eyes. Then, that young woman had been kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen, and it had started a war between families, a war that had made the streets run red with blood.

Those had been painful, tense months during which Brandon had been insane with rage and raw with pain. Catelyn had never known what methods he’d used to search for his sister, and she was quite sure she never wanted to know either.

In the end, it had all been in vain. Lyanna hadn’t come back alive. Instead, she had left behind a son, and video tapes, recorded while she had been kept by Rhaegar Targaryen—one for Brandon, one for Benjen, one for Ned, and one for her son. Those tapes had been Lyanna’s goodbyes to each of her brothers, and her declaration of love to the son she’d never know.

Cat didn’t know what Brandon’s tape said, or Benjen’s or Jon’s, but she remembered some of what Ned’s had said. Catelyn had let him have his secrets, but once, late at night, she had woken up without him in bed, and when she had gone searching for him, Ned had been in front of the TV, watching Lyanna’s tear stained face as she talked to him in a voice bitter and hopeless, but determined. _Fight it, Ned, fight it for me. Promise me, she had begged_. Catelyn hadn’t stayed to hear more.

_We tried fighting it_ , she thought to herself, _but some things are just too strong._

There was no use wallowing in misery. Catelyn had been taught to accept the things that God threw in her path and make the most of them. There was no going back now.

“Sansa, you need to know a few things about Winterfell, and about your uncle Brandon. I was wrong to keep you in the dark. No more secrets.” Catelyn was doing the right thing; Sansa deserved to know the truth.

She was doing the right thing by telling her.

She was.

***

_February 1, 2013,_

_New York,_

_Robb Stark._

***

They were greeted at the airport by a tall man with grey hair and bright, blue eyes. He took one look at their party before he walked straight up to Mother and embraced her, a gesture she returned wholeheartedly.

“My Cat,” Robb heard him say with affection, and he saw his mother’s posture instantly relax when she heard his words.

“Uncle Brynden, I’m...” She seemed to be searching for her words, and Robb was certain he was going to hear an apology; a plea of forgiveness for past events, but when she spoke, it was to introduce him to his uncle. “I would like you to meet my son, Robb.” She turned to him with a hopeful shine in her eyes.

Robb found himself in an uncomfortable position where he and his great-uncle regarded each other and neither knew what to say. God, he was never sure of how he was supposed to act in such a situation; Sansa was the one who defused the tension when it settled over them, not him. Just as he opened his mouth to say something, Brynden laughed and put a hand on Robb’s shoulder.

“I’d have known you were Cat’s son whether she’d told me or not. You’re the spitting image of your grandfather when he was young, Robb.” The man looked at him with a small quirk of his lips. “I should like to meet all my other great-nephews and great-nieces as well.”

“You know you are always welcome at Winterfell, Brynden,” Brandon said, grinning at them as they walked out of the airport. Brandon’s bodyguards followed them a few steps behind, ever silent, but to Robb, their presence only served as a reminder of the danger he was getting himself into.

“We would all love you there, Uncle. I know you’d like to meet everyone.” Mother looked earnestly at Brynden, and Robb wasn’t really sure how he felt about that. He had in no way enjoyed the parade of relatives that he’d never met before, but out of all of them, Brynden was the only one he hadn’t instantly disliked.

Robb could see himself developing a relationship with him.

***

Later that day, they would be having lunch with Catelyn’s younger brother, Edmure. He’d invited them over to the apartment he shared with his wife. And then, the next day, Robb would accompany Brandon and Catelyn to the meeting he now wasn’t all that certain he wanted to attend.

He had been given files on all the different families and their hierarchies, and he’d read every damn one and had them memorized. Now that he knew exactly what kind of people he had to deal with, it all seemed even more surreal. He had hoped that things would seem more tangible after reading all those files, but the opposite had happened. Robb felt like the lead of a bad TV show.

“Roslin recently found out she is pregnant,” Brynden was explaining to them. A limousine had been waiting for them at the airport, and after having made a quick stop at their hotel, it was now driving them to Edmure’s apartment. “She has asked Edmure to stay in New York for the duration of her pregnancy, so she can be closer to her family.” Brynden shrugged his shoulders. “Roslin doesn’t like Ireland very much. Hoster also thought it would be good for Edmure to spend some time here, to get a feel for how business is run in the States. But he can’t wait to go home, to be honest. As for me, I found out long ago I like it here much more than I’d expected to. Dealing with your father is never an easy feat, Cat, and I need time away from him every so often.”

“Uncle, how is Lysa doing?” Mother asked with obvious interest.

“I’m afraid I don’t know.” Robb could tell it was a painful answer to give by the look on Brynden’s face. “Lysa refuses to answer any of our calls. In a way, I think this is much more painful than...” He trailed off, and Robb stole a glance at his mother, only to see the anguish in her eyes.

“I haven’t seen Roslin since the wedding. How has she been doing?” Brandon’s question was obviously meant to take their minds off of hurtful subjects, but what had gone unsaid still floated between them.

Lysa had abandoned her family, but so had Mother. Now she was forced to see how it had affected the people in her life, and it had to be horrible to realize how big of a hole a person left in someone’s universe after they’d disappeared.

The rest of the conversation went much more smoothly, even though Mother was quieter now. She stared out of the window and only added bits and pieces to the conversation. He wanted to reach for her hand to offer his silent support, but she seemed as if she was lost in thought, and he didn’t dare break her out of her trance.

They had reached their destination too soon for comfort, Robb thought as the limo driver opened the car door and held it out for them.

“Jory, you can go back to the hotel,” Brandon addressed one of his bodyguards when the man moved to get out of the car. “I’m sure no one will attack us while we’re under Edmure’s roof.”

“Very well, sir. We’ll be back here when you call for us.” With that, the man closed the door and the limousine pulled away from the sidewalk, and Robb was left to stare at the huge, steel and glass building Edmure lived in.

He tried to imagine what sort of man would live in such a building. He imagined someone tall and imposing, with broad shoulders to match Brandon, and with a deep, gruff voice like Brynden’s. Instead, he was greeted by a redheaded man that was shorter than Robb, and very cheerful, with a copper colored beard that took over most of his face.

“Uncle, Brandon, it’s good to see you.” Then he turned his gaze upon Catelyn and his smile became smaller, no less honest, but maybe a little strained around the edges. “Cat. It’s been a while. You...You have white in your hair,” he finished lamely, and cringed, as though he was expecting her to yell at him. Mother only laughed.

“And you have grown a beard,” she said, and even though they acted friendly, Robb could feel something bubbling beneath the surface between the two of them.

“Roslin likes it,” Edmure said as he guided them into the living room.

The apartment was spacious, with wooden panels for flooring and huge windows that showed off a great view of the city. There was a white, leather sofa in the living room with matching leather armchairs, and a low, glass coffee table in the middle. It looked like something out of an interior design magazine, all minimalist décor and neutral tones.

A woman came into the room, carrying a tray with teacups, but when she saw them, she froze.

“Ah, Roslin, sweetheart. Come here. I want you to meet my sister, Catelyn, and her son, Robb.” Mother made to walk over to her, presumably to help her with the tray, but Roslin took a step back, away from her. Edmure’s wife seemed determined to look anywhere but them.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said hurriedly, and raised her gaze from the ground minutely. Her eyes met Robb’s, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen so much fear on someone’s face before. It struck him dumb, that this woman whom he’d never before met was somehow afraid of him. He tried to smile, to ease some of her worry, but it had the opposite effect—her face contorted into a pained grimace, and it made her stumble as she tried to walk forward. The tray fell from her hands and the teacups shattered across the floor.

“Roslin! Are you okay?” Edmure went over to her and put his hands on her shoulders. She looked at the liquid that spread over the floor as if mesmerized, and then, like a fog had been lifted, she blinked and turned to look at her husband.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, and then again, louder. “I’m fine. I’m sorry for the mess, I wasn’t...” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a second. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s okay, Roslin. We know you have a lot on your mind, what with the baby and everything. I’ll get something to clean that up,” Brynden said kindly, and headed into the kitchen to find something to clean up with. Roslin tried smiling, but she still refused to look at any of them.

“I can go make coffee, it’s no trouble at all,” Mother offered. “In fact, Edmure can come help me. It’s been such a long time since we last talked to each other.” Edmure nodded his consent, but he gave Roslin a worried look and hesitated briefly before he followed his sister into the kitchen. Brandon joined them shortly after, leaving Robb alone with Roslin.

“I shouldn’t have asked the maid to leave. I shouldn’t have, I know, I am always so terribly clumsy and...” She took a seat on the sofa next to Robb, probably feeling as out of place as he did. Roslin turned towards Robb with wide eyes. “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, Your Gra... Mr. Stark.”

“Oh, please don’t call me Mr. Stark,” he told her with a grin, trying to cheer her up. “That’s how people refer to Brandon, or my father. You can just call me Robb. And there’s nothing to be sorry about, it was an accident, that’s all.” He tried to sound cheerful, but he noticed that tears were starting to gather in her eyes. He had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to react to that.

“There is, though. There is so much to be sorry for, but I...” She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes glassy and staring somewhere behind Robb. Roslin swallowed tightly, raising her chin a little, and Robb thought it looked as if she was steeling herself for something important. “I’m a terrible host,” she said suddenly. “I forgot to welcome any of you properly. Please, excuse my bad manners.” Her words were solemn and heavy with meaning Robb didn’t understand. He felt as if the whole thing had gone over his head, as if he was missing out on a great revelation. “Welcome to my home, Robb Stark.” Roslin smiled at him, but the quirk of her lips looked sad. It sent an unpleasant shudder down his back, a sharp, stinging sensation; like a being pierced through with an arrow.

***

_February 3, 2013,_

_Arya Stark._

***

“That’ll be four dollars and thirty cents, Miss.” The cashier was a middle-aged woman with thick glasses, and she regarded Arya with a fond, motherly expression on her face.

“Yeah, sure. Just wait a second.” Arya took out her wallet to pay for her snack, but soon frowned in confusion. There was something weird about it. It was heavier.

She had left Winterfell to walk around, to relax a bit. Arya had woken up that morning with a nagging feeling in the back of her head, as though she was supposed to remember something she had forgotten. It was something from her old life, from the memories of a vengeful, bitter girl. It was on the tip of her tongue as well. A name? A place?

It was horribly frustrating—all these memories she had in her mind, jumbled together. Sometimes she remembered glimpses of how life had been thousands of years before, but she wasn’t always sure what was fact and what was fantasy. The details had been so clear before, but now, everything was becoming blurrier and blurrier. Arya had woken up afraid, afraid she was going to forget everything again, that Arya of House Stark would become less and less real in her own mind.

Suddenly, she had felt caged in at Winterfell and she just had to get away from the place for a while. Mother was still in New York with Robb, Sansa was off to God knew where with that Rodrik Cassel man, Rickon had an army of maids to look over him, and Bran had disappeared earlier that morning. Jon hadn’t visited in a while, and Arya was already starting to miss him.

It was useless to try to convince her family of the truth; they would never believe her. Before, every time she had been certain she’d seen someone, they had thought she was simply telling children’s stories. Now, they had accused her of lying, or being crazy. What would they say if she started telling them about what they had been before? Sansa had refused to accept the truth, and she had to have felt the same thing as Arya. How could she convince Mother, or Robb, when Sansa didn’t want to believe it?

She had wandered about until she’d felt hungry. Luckily for her, she had found this little sandwich shop right around the corner, and even luckier; she had brought her wallet with her.

Something felt off about it, though. Her wallet was so much heavier than she remembered, and Arya never had enough money for it to feel full. Now, her little wallet seemed as if it was about to burst. Curiously, she opened it and found it filled with...coins?

She took one out and examined it. It looked old, rusted at the edges, seemingly made of iron. They were all the same, each one she took out and held in front of her. Iron coins. Arya remembered this—it had saved her in a time where she had needed it most. An iron coin was worth one trip to Braavos, if it was given to a Braavosi while speaking the words...

Arya heard it, the phrase that was on the tip of her tongue. She could hear it in her mind, as though it was spoken directly into her brain. It was a language she didn’t know, words she couldn’t make out, gone before she registered them.

A chill ran down her spine, a fist of ice that grabbed her insides and refused to let go.

Arya turned around and ran. She dropped her wallet and heard the iron coins scattering every which way. She heard the woman calling after her, but Arya kept running, because she had to get back to Winterfell, she had to be safe.

She ran straight into someone. There was an apology on her lips, but when she looked up, she promptly froze.

“A girl should not try to outrun the impossible,” he said smoothly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He looked just like Arya remembered; hair red and white, a young man that looked older than time itself. He took her hand and gently placed something on her palm. “When a girl calls, a man will answer her.”

Arya looked at the iron coin in her palm.

This man was her childhood nightmare. He’d haunted her day and night, he’d watched her and waited, and everyone had told her he wasn’t real, but she had known. She’d always known. This coin was her proof, and it felt so much heavier in her hand than anything had ever done before.

She remembered him.

“What do you mean, when I call?” she asked, but when she raised her head to look at him, he wasn’t there anymore. Arya was alone.

_Maybe I am going mad_ , after all, she told herself.

All the way back to Winterfell, Arya racked her brain for something she was never supposed to have forgotten. She tried to sort through memories and thoughts, but the answer she sought kept eluding her. Arya kept the iron coin in her pocket all the way back home, and its weight was heavier than ever.

***

_February 4, 2013,_

_Time: 3:42 AM,_

_Winterfell,_

_Sansa Stark._

***

Sansa dreamed of laughter, of long, dark corridors all bathed in a soft, green glow. She was running away from something, from claws that reached out to her from the darkness. She ran as fast as her feet could carry her, until she was short of breath, until her muscles screamed in protest, until she ran headfirst into someone’s waiting arms.

He smelled of sweat, blood and wine, and she should have been repulsed, scared, she should have run away, but she felt safe in his arms. She knew him. But even as his strong arms tightened around her, he could do nothing to protect her.

Hands like talons grabbed her from the darkness and pulled at her. Her protector had to let her go, because while he was strong, this was something he couldn’t fight.

“Little bird!” he called and reached out for her, but she was already out of his grasp, beyond his range.

She looked at herself, at her middle where the creature was clutching her. His touch had burned through her dress. It was searing her skin just as surely as a heated iron brand would. She could smell cooked meat and realized it was her own flesh frying. Sansa was numb to it, though, she was beyond the pain, was beyond the horror. The frightened helplessness of before had melted away and left nothing in its place.

White nothingness and silver smoke had stolen her, and in her ear, it whispered one word.

“ _Burn_.”

Sansa woke up screaming.

***

_February 4, 2013,_

_Time: 11:20 AM,_

_Saint Augustine Psychiatric Hospital,_

_Daenerys Targaryen._

***

Her doctor, Melisandre, had promised her freedom and greatness, but she’d also told her she had to be patient. Daenerys could wait; she had learned how to wait while trapped in Saint Augustine. It was easier to do now that she could allow herself to believe that one day she’d be out of there.

Daenerys found herself dreaming of a life outside the psychiatric facility. She dreamed of eating ice cream and drinking chai tea again, of clothes she could buy herself, and of a place to live on her own. She didn’t dare to think about how she would find the money for them, because then the fantasy would be shattered. She would be able to find something to do with herself, right? She always made it through, no matter how dire the situation. Daenerys had lived through the crossing of the Red Waste. She’d lived through the years Viserys and her had begged their way into the houses of rich men in the Free Cities, and she’d lived through countless assassination attempts.

When she got out of here, Daenerys had to find someone like Melisandre, someone that believed her. Maybe Melisandre herself could help her in her quest, as she was the only one still alive that didn’t think her crazy. Each day that passed in Saint Augustine, she was a little more expectant, a little more anxious. It was that hope that kept her up at night. The hope that she could find someone to trust completely that had her tossing and turning in her bed. Hope was free, and it was all she had there, but it was also a dangerous thing that festered inside of her. Hope could kill her, she knew, but still she could not bring herself to squash it.

“Danielle?” Irri had come for her again. “You have a visitor.”

Danielle didn’t have visitors, because she had no friends, and all her family was dead. Daenerys had Melisandre, but if the redheaded woman wanted to talk to her, she would call Daenerys into her office. Curious, Dany followed Irri wordlessly. She’d never had a visitor before. Who would be interested in a seemingly crazy girl with no one left to care for her?

Irri guided her to one of the rooms especially designed for meeting guests. She remembered them from the first few months of being in Saint Augustine, when Illyrio Mopatis had shown up to check on her and see how she was doing. They had been remodeled along with the rest of the hospital, the table in the middle of the room with the stiff wooden chairs replaced by two couches in front of each other. As Daenerys entered the room, a woman that had been sitting on one of the couches got up to greet her.

“Thank you for bringing her, but I’d like to talk to her alone. You’re free to go.” The woman made a shooing motion with her hand and smiled widely at Irri’s hesitation.

“Someone is supposed to be here. Danielle is considered a high-risk patient and I...”

“Nonsense. I spoke to the director and told him I wanted privacy for this meeting. He agreed.” She paused for a second, and when Irri didn’t immediately leave, she sighed exasperatedly. “ _Go_.”

As the door shut behind Irri, Daenerys found herself quietly studying this young woman she was now alone with. She was a short, buxom beauty with black hair that fell in ringlets over her shoulders and back. Her large, dark eyes were analyzing Daenerys just as surely as Daenerys was analyzing her. The other’s lips curved into a wide smile, and Dany thought it was a smile full of wicked promises.

“You’re a hard one to find, my little lady. We’ve been searching for you for quite some time, but Illyrio only just agreed to tell us your location. He said the time was now ripe.” She snorted and rolled her eyes, as though the thought of listening to someone like Illyrio was beneath her. “We would’ve come much sooner, but...”

Daenerys felt anticipation coursing through her with every word that came out of the woman’s mouth. Was this it? Was she finally going to get out of her prison?

“Who are you?” While she was hopeful, the Mother of Dragons had been betrayed too many times to put her trust in a stranger. She needed to be cautious.

“My name is Arianne Martell. I’m a friend.”

Martell. She knew that name, she remembered it from before. Elia Martell of Dorne, Rhaegar’s wife. Her heart was beating so loud Daenerys was certain Arianne could hear its rhythm.

“Danielle Thornburn doesn’t have friends,” she said weakly, because she had to test this, to be sure it wasn’t fake.

“I’m not interested in Danielle Thornburn, Your Grace. I’m here to rescue a queen,” Arianne laughed, and it was the sweetest thing Daenerys had heard in all her life.

***

  
_February 4, 2013,_

_Time: 11:47 PM,_

_Winterfell,_

_Bran Stark._

***

It was close to midnight when Bran started walking back to his room. Mother and Robb had just gotten back from New York, and they had brought back a guest with them—Mother’s uncle, Brynden Tully. Bran had enjoyed talking to the man, and strangely enough, Rickon had instantly taken a liking to him.

Mother, Robb and Brandon had all looked so serious, and almost as soon as they had gotten back, all three of them had gone into Brandon’s study to discuss...something. A little later, Sansa had joined them. Arya had made a disgusted face and loudly announced she was going to walk around the garden for a while. Rickon had just gone to bother some of the maids, and Bran was left all alone in the living room. He wasn’t sure whether to feel left out or not. Ever since they’d moved to Winterfell, this sort of thing was happening more frequently. It was as if his entire family was planning something he wasn’t allowed to know. Bran knew better than to ask questions, though.

He wasn’t sure what he thought about Winterfell yet. He’d expected something different—maybe in some corner of his mind he had thought that living here would at least start mending the tear that Father’s death had left inside all of them. Bran didn’t know about any of his brothers or sisters, but it had had the exact opposite effect on him. He’d tried to imagine Father anywhere in the Manor, but there was nothing in Winterfell that suggested Eddard Stark had ever lived there. Still, Bran had tried, and he was left thinking that there was a part of his father that he had never seen, something hidden that neither of them could ever have suspected. The thought hurt him more than he thought possible.

Brynden found him on the couch in the living room, staring at the television, though his eyes did not register what was happening on the screen. The man took a seat next to him.

“Hello. Bran is it, right? How are you doing, my boy?”

It was such a simple question, really. _How are you doing?_ Basic courtesy. Still, Bran found himself warmed to the core, because when was the last time anyone had asked him anything? Mother never seemed to be around for long. Robb was always busy. Sansa either hid in her room, or she was out doing God knew what. Rickon ran around and caused havoc. Arya...Arya...was lost to him again. His sister refused to talk to any of them, but no one felt the silence quite as harshly as Bran himself.

His great-uncle Brynden probably knew nothing of that, but Bran was still so stupidly glad that Brynden had decided to come talk to him. He seized the opportunity to ask about his grandfather, about his mother’s childhood home, about Ireland.

“Maybe you’ll get to come visit soon. I can’t stay here very long, but perhaps your mother would let me take you to Ireland for a visit when I go back. I know for a fact that your grandfather, Hoster, would love to meet all of you.”

Brynden told him he looked very much like his grandmother Minisa, who had died right after giving birth to Edmure, Mother’s youngest sibling. Bran chose not to ask why Edmure himself didn’t want to meet them.

Now, as he walked through the corridors of Winterfell, he couldn’t help but think about his father doing the same thing. Why had Father left this place, anyway? He didn’t think Mother would answer if he asked, but maybe Robb would, or Sansa. He was sure they knew. He was curious, and he felt lonely and left out because no one told him anything important. Although, whenever he intended to ask them questions and demand the information he wanted, his words just froze in his throat. Don’t ask, a voice inside of him seemed to say. Don’t ask.

Bran sighed and felt his stomach twist uncomfortably. The stomachaches were occurring with increasing frequency, and he knew he should really tell Mother about it. He’d read somewhere that stress could cause ulcers, and they had all been under a lot of stress lately.

He opened the door to his room and blinked in surprise when he found a girl sitting on his window ledge. A girl whose cheeks were dirty and feet bare. A girl he’d never seen in his life. She sat up instantly when she saw him, but her face contorted in pain and she grabbed hold of her side, as if to stop the pain with her fingers.

“Please don’t scream. I’m not here to hurt you.” She came forward a few steps and tried smiling at him, but it looked more like a grimace. She was small, thin and pale, and Bran could see that the hand clutching her side was now bloody. A wound.

“You’re bleeding,” he pointed out, but the girl only laughed.

“It’s only a minor wound. Nothing I can’t handle now that I’m here.” She was too pale, and she looked drained and tired, but even so, her green eyes shone brightly as she looked at him.

He supposed he should be scared of her, or at least distressed about how she had gotten there and what she wanted, but there was something about her that loosened the knots inside his stomach, that made the pain go away. It was as if for the first time in his life, Bran could finally breathe properly.

“How did you get here?”

“I walked,” she explained calmly. “And I ran. I climbed and I...” She came closer and closer, until they were so close he could hear her breathing. “I came this far for you.”

His heart stuttered. “For me?”

“Yes. And I came all this way so I could tell you...” She trailed off as she raised her fingers to his face, her bloody, red fingers. She touched the skin under his right eye and grinned tiredly at him. “Hello, Bran of House Stark. It is so very nice to finally meet you,” she finally said, and then, to Bran’s panicked worry, she fainted, her finger leaving a red line on his cheek.

Like the trail of a bloody tear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a 'please forgive me for being laaaate, laaaaate, laaaaate' gift, I can offer you guys my[ Mafia AU playlist.](http://www.mediafire.com/?fv7kyjqvr558358) These songs are part of my mental soundtrack for Memories of Ages Past. I usually get very excited over music, so I'm going to try to pimp it out to you. Feel free to ignore me. :D 
> 
> I will love you forever and ever if you comment. I still love you just for reading this, but you know. Comments are lovely. :)


	5. A Matter of Fate

***

_February 5, 2013,_

_Winterfell,_

_Catelyn Stark._

 

***

When Robb had been five years old and Sansa had been two, Ned had gotten an urgent call from Illyrio Mopatis and Varys. He’d never told Catelyn what they’d discussed or what they had wanted from him; only that he had to go personally, or else their little family would never be left alone. Catelyn had trusted his judgment, but she had been reluctant to let him go all the same.

“This is the last time, Catelyn. I promise you.”

Ned had been determined to make sure the children and her were safe, so he had arranged for them to stay with his old friend, Howland Reed. Catelyn had found herself braving the Russian winter once again, this time deep in the Siberian taiga where the Reed family had deemed it appropriate to live. Based on the way it was organized and run, Greywater Watch was very similar—and could be compared—to a military complex. The only way to get there was to be led through the forest by an experienced guide—driving a Jeep to navigate the uneven terrain. The woods were treacherous, and many a soul had gotten lost and perished in the density of the trees, trying to cross the forest on their own. Howland was their undisputed leader, and there wasn’t a man or woman at Greywater Watch who wouldn’t obeyed his every command.

Howland had once told Catelyn that the Reed family lived in the Russian forests because it was where the ‘old gods’ were at their strongest. He had tried to explain his strange religion to her, but it had only served to make her uncomfortable. Howland had told her that his gods, the old Northern gods, lived in the woods, and that each person’s fate was written on the branches and in the tree trunks, in the leaves and in the pine cones. Catelyn had found it hard to believe that anyone’s faith could be determined by trees or something stupidly similar, but everyone at Greywater Watch stood by their belief. After having spent three months there, she had been more than ready to run away.

“There are things in life you cannot fight, Catelyn,” Howland had told her. “I _know_ what Ned is trying to do, I know _why_ he is doing it, but do not let yourself be fooled like this, Catelyn. Be smarter. Bad things happen when you try to fight against the gods. We are all powerless against them.”

“What would you have me do then, Howland? Sit by and wait? Become a new Lyanna Stark? _No_.” They had been sitting in Howland’s cabin when that particular conversation had taken place, and she had been constantly watching the outside to see Robb running around. She had asked him to stay within her sight, and until how he had listened to her, but still she felt more comfortable keeping an eye on him. Sansa was napping, and soon enough, she’d wake up hungry. Food was scarce at Greywater Watch, but Howland had made sure that her children and herself were well-fed and taken care of. 

“You can accept that things happen by a certain pattern and you can make the most of them.” He had run a hand through his thinning hair and looked at her with pity in his gaze. “Sometimes it’s the only thing you can do.” He’d come closer to her then, looking out of the window as well. His gaze easily found Robb and followed him just as surely as hers did. “Some people grow old before their time. Others do not get to grow old at all. It is not for us to decide.”

She had felt a shiver run down her spine at his ominous words. Catelyn had been afraid of Howland Reed’s knowing smile, of his bright, green eyes. It had seemed to her as if those eyes knew all the secrets of the universe.

Catelyn hadn’t thought about Greywater Watch in years, but now, looking at the little girl sleeping soundly in one of the beds in Winterfell Manor’s infirmary, the memories came rushing back to her unbidden. 

The girl’s body was littered with minor scrapes and bruises, and a superficial wound on the side of her abdomen was testament to the trials she’d been through. As far as Doctor Luwin could tell, it was the result of the girl having when climbed over the iron wrought fence that surrounded the northern side of the grounds.

Brandon kept Dr. Luwin on the Stark family payroll for medical emergencies where going to the hospital simply wasn’t an option. She was glad for it; at least the man had better sense than his father—Brandon had long since converted some of the numerous guest rooms that had gone largely unused into a small infirmary, appropriately furnished with different medical equipment. It had come in handy in situations like this.

Catelyn had been observing the girl for quite some time, patiently sitting back in a chair resting beside the bed, and so when the girl finally opened her eyes, Catelyn only waited for her to blink a couple of times before speaking to her.

“Ms. Reed, I’m pleased you’re awake. How are you feeling?” Catelyn questioned, and watched the girl wince as she sat up, shifting her body towards Catelyn, eyes studying her intently. She was silent for several, long minutes before she smiled cheerfully, showing no sign of hesitation or weariness despite her unfortunate position.

“Lady Stark, I presume? I have heard so much about you. I’m Meera and...wait...how did you...” the girl frowned as she stumbled over her words, looking so much like her father doing so, it was all Catelyn could do to keep from flinching at the stark resemblance.

“The doctor that examined you said you had a crocodile tattoo on your back, in green ink. I remember Howland telling me that only members of his immediate family were allowed that mark.”

Howland had his on his neck—a green crocodile with a gaping jaw, teeth sharp and big.

The girl, Meera, nodded in acknowledgment. “I think I might have scared your son a little. I’m sorry about that. My brother told me I shouldn’t let anyone else see me, that I should go to Bran first.”

“And so you decided to climb through his bedroom window?” Catelyn asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah. Sorry. That might have been a bit much.” Meera looked apologetic, a little sheepish, and Catelyn absently thought she might have like her, if the circumstances had been different. This though... She wasn’t sure what Howland was trying to accomplish by sending his daughter here, especially since they hadn’t communicated in twenty years.

“Why are you here, Meera?”

Bran had wanted to stay in the room with her until the girl woke up, but Catelyn had denied him access. She had taken her place in the chair by her bedside and waited for the girl to wake up. First she needed to know what Meera wanted from her family, from Bran, and even then, she had her doubts about how smart it was to let the two of them talk.

 “My father sent me. I...I have a brother, Jojen. He has green dreams. In one of his dreams he saw me on this journey; bringing Bran with me to the Woods. He has also seen Bran. Jojen says that the best way for Bran to meet his fate is for me to guide him to where he needs to be.” Meera pushed a lock of brown hair behind her ear, eyes serious and jaw set as she looked at Catelyn.

Catelyn had heard about green dreams as she had lived with the Reeds. Apparently, these dreams were prophetic in nature, and the people who dreamed them, the greenseers, were treated with the utmost respect and consideration. Howland himself took their words to heart.

“Are you honestly telling me that I am supposed to let my son travel to the Russian wilderness with you? That I will let him?”

“It’s how it is, Lady Stark. You must let Bran go. It’s his fate.” There was nothing but honest conviction in Meera’s voice, and Catelyn realized the girl wholeheartedly believed in what she was saying. It made everything so much harder.

“No. I’m sorry, but no. I am not agreeing to this.” In the past few months, Catelyn had based many of her decisions on so-called fate _. Some things are meant to happen a certain way_ , she had been told so many times. God had preordained their destinies; people’s lives had a certain course, and times of death had already been determined long before they were born. Catelyn believed all this, but she was far from ready to give up any of her children. Bran’s fate could wait.

“Lady Stark, if you don’t let him come with me now, it’s just going to make things harder for him. You won’t be able to avoid it forever, I assure you. For you to willingly let him go is the best way to achieve this, but it’s not the only way.” Meera wet her lips and seemed uncertain of how to proceed. “I...my father warned me that you might not agree to this. He said that I’m supposed to stay here for as long as it takes to convince you.”

“Then you will be here for a long time. You needn’t worry, though, Winterfell is big enough to accept another guest.” Catelyn was reluctant to let the girl stay—she had no doubt that any further interaction between Meera and Bran would only lead to trouble—but despite her reservations, Howland Reed had taken care of her and her children when Ned had asked him, and Catelyn was honor bound to return the favor. It shouldn’t be too much of a hassle to take care of his daughter.

“I want to speak to your father.”

Meera shook her head, small smile still on her face, even though she had just been told she would be staying in Winterfell, a place wholly unfamiliar to her, for an undisclosed period of time. “I would like to speak to him too, but as you probably know, there’s no phone at Greywater Watch.”

Catelyn sighed and got up from her chair. “I’ll send in Dr. Luwin to see to you, Ms. Reed.”

“Lady Stark, please wait!”

Catelyn stopped in her tracks and turned around to Meera. The girl had her lower lip between her teeth and she was worrying it intensely. “I know that you don’t believe me and that you don’t believe in our faith, but please, listen to me! At Greywater Watch, the Woods speak. The trees surrounding us have their own language, and usually only the greenseers are allowed to hear it, but sometimes, in some exceptional cases, when they’re particularly loud, we all hear it. In the last few months we could all hear the murmuring of the forest. They called out, and they called out for Bran. The Lord of the Forest, Lord Bloodraven is asking for him, and it’s Bran’s fate to answer him.” Meera’s eyes had taken on a feverish, sickly glow as she spoke, her words rushed and desperate.

“There is no Lord Bloodraven.” Catelyn tried to sound collected, but her voice had an edge to it that she could not deny.

“There you’re wrong. I have seen him. We all have.” Meera had paled, her pallor an unhealthy white, as if the memory of what she’d seen made her insides crawl. “He came to each of us in our dream, right before Father sent me away. I only glimpsed him for a few seconds, but I will never forget him. He is part man, part tree.” The girl’s lips quirked a little in what Catelyn thought was supposed to be a comforting smile. “He doesn’t want to hurt Bran, but he needs to see him.”

“No.” Catelyn’s voice was strong and powerful and did nothing to betray the growing knot of anxiety in her stomach. “I don’t care what your people believe in. Your gods are not mine and I can accept that, but I cannot, _will not_ , accept the existence of a Lord of the Forest that is asking for my son. None of this is real, Ms. Reed. It’s not real.”

Catelyn left the room and closed the door behind her. The door was solid behind her back as she leaned tiredly against it. Her fingers were shaking, and she fisted her hands as tightly as she could to stop their trembling. Catelyn closed her eyes, letting herself just breathe for a few seconds.

“It’s not real,” she told herself. “It’s not real.”

With one last, deep inhale, she straightened herself and started walking down the hallway. She had to find Dr. Luwin.

 

***

_February 26, 2013,_

_Robb Stark._

 

***

“You’re just dying to get diabetes, aren’t you?” Robb said matter-of-factly as he eyed the sugary monstrosity Theon had in front of him. The man had the culinary tastes of a five-year-old loose in a candy shop, and Robb made sure to remind him of it with every occasion he had.

“Fuck off, Stark!” Theon stuck his tongue at him. “Just because you’re incapable of enjoying the finer things in life doesn’t mean we all need to be as lame as you are.”

“Not wanting a sugar induced coma doesn’t mean I’m lame. It means I’m sane and that you’re going to die young because you’re diet sucks,” Robb responded with a laugh, watching as Theon spooned nearly half of the cake and stuffed it in his mouth in one go—just to spite him, he was sure.

Robb rolled his eyes. “Remind me again why I keep hanging out with you?”

“Because I’m fabulous and you want to tear off my clothes,” Theon said, his mouth full and grinning at the same time.

“Yes, that _must_ it,” Robb countered drily.

Truth be told, he kept meeting up with Theon because the other man had been the only person he’d met there that hadn’t tried to call him Mr. Stark upon first meeting him. It seemed that his newfound interest in getting involved with the Stark family affairs had sparked the rumors that Brandon would be naming him his heir, and that in turn had caused everyone he met to treat him with a kind of respect he didn’t quite know how to respond to.

He was finding himself in that position quite often these days—not knowing what to do, what to think, what to say, what to decide. Did he want to stay at Winterfell? Did he want to become Brandon’s heir? He had no idea. If someone had asked him only a month ago; the answer would have been clear: hell no. Right now, though, he wasn’t so sure.

If Robb didn’t take the position for himself, Sansa would be next in line as a viable candidate, and he couldn’t imagine anyone more poorly equipped for the position other than his sister. If not Sansa, than Arya or Bran would have to be trained, or Rickon would have to be raised knowing that one day he’d have to shoot someone to protect his family. Robb refused to think about any of his siblings being subjected to such a fate.

On the other hand, he had no idea what he was supposed to tell Jeyne. _I’m not moving back to Munich to be with you. You have to come here and get married to a mobster. I’m sorry, I just can’t give this up_... It all seemed so inefficient, and besides, he owed her a better life than that.

Theon pinched the side of his face and the unexpected touch startled him out of his musings. “There. Now you’re paying attention again.”

“You just _had_ to do that, didn’t you?” Robb glared at him, but considering the petulant tone of his voice, he suspected it wasn’t quite as menacing as he was aiming for.

“Well, yeah. You looked like a soap-opera character there for a minute, all lost in thought and sighing longingly.” Theon fluttered his eyelashes dramatically and demonstrated just how _longingly_ Robb had supposedly sighed. He looked ridiculous doing so, and Robb snorted a laugh. “See, asshole? You looked just as stupid doing it.”

The day after the accident and their initial meeting, Theon had called Robb and asked him to get together for a cup of coffee. Despite his instincts screaming against it, Robb had found himself agreeing to it. Theon had spent the entire time shamelessly flirting with Robb, and even though he turned the other down at each turn, Robb was still grudgingly flattered by the attention. The second time they had met up after the accident was right after Robb had come back from New York, and the flirting had been toned down quite a bit. Ever since then, they would meet every other day for coffee or lunch, and on one memorable occasion; for breakfast—Theon having called him at eight in the morning, demanding that Robb have breakfast with him.

Today, he’d insisted they try out a new place that had recently opened in the city center and which specialized in sweet bakery products. Robb had agreed, even though he had spent the better part of the night going over transaction records for Brandon.

And so there they were in a little shop—a coffee shop, really—that sold a wide range of cakes, tarts and cupcakes. Theon had drooled in front of them for five minutes before he’d finally decided on what to get, and Robb had bought himself a vanilla fruit tart that he’d barely touched.

Theon’s smile slowly faded until it was replaced with a seriousness that he’d rarely displayed during the span of their short acquaintance. Robb felt something change and shift in the air between them, the relaxed atmosphere replaced with something heavier. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to let himself embrace it or if it would be safer to go back to the smiles and grins from before.

“Hey, Robb?” Theon was looking at him with a somber expression from across the table. It was a bit disconcerting: Theon’s eyes were so dark they were almost black, and when they focused like that on something, it was impossible to tell what was going on behind them. Being studied like that, so intensely, sent a strange sort of heat through Robb’s veins, like when he’d drunken tequila shots on an empty stomach. Anyone claiming it _wasn’t_ thrilling to be on the receiving end of such intense attention _had_ to be lying. “How much sleep do you usually get?”

Theon reached out across the table and ran his fingers over the thin, darkened skin under Robb’s left eye. His fingers were calloused, but the touch was so gentle Robb’s breath caught almost painfully in his chest. “Not much,” he answered, though his voice was all wrong; too soft and too breathy. Tendrils of excitement knotted themselves in Robb’s stomach, preparing him for...something. It was something that hanged in limbo between them, and this moment felt like a tipping point. Robb wasn’t sure whether he wanted to bolt out of there or lean into the touch, so he did neither.

“Hmmm. Thought so.” The corner of Theon’s mouth curled into a little smirk, one that Robb really, really shouldn’t have traced with his eyes. Theon’s fingers moved lower and traced the curve of his cheek in a deeply intimate gesture. Robb exhaled carefully through his parted lips, but it did nothing to ease the tension in his body. “What’s keeping you up at night, baby?”

Robb’s phone started vibrating on the table, and Theon pulled his hand back slowly, as if he wanted to make sure that traces of his touch would linger on Robb’s skin afterwards.  

“Remember what I said: ‘Only if it’s life and death.’” It would have sounded much more like a threat if Theon hadn’t chosen that exact second to scoot forward and steal a piece out of Robb’s tart. And just like that, everything was back to normal between them. _What just happened, anyway?_

Nothing. _Nothing happened_ , Robb told himself as he picked up his phone to see who was calling him. It was Jeyne. His first instinct was to answer it, but then he took a second to really decide.

It seemed as if someone was always calling him when he was trying to relax. It was either Sansa, Brandon or Mother, even Brynden and Edmure called him on occasion. Bran had started calling him more lately as well, because he had this huge crush on the Reed girl who had been staying with them for the last three weeks, and he was always asking for advice. Arya sometimes called when he was out and she was bored, and she refused to let him ignore her. The fact that they all lived in the same damned house didn’t make things easier, because for some reason, they were almost never in the same place at the same time.

The last time he’d met with Theon, he’d gotten four phone calls in less than an hour. The first time had been Sansa, and she had wanted Robb to take her to the dancing class she had started taking. Ten minutes later, Brandon had called to see if Robb was still going through with their plans—plans which included assisting a negotiation between Brandon and a yakuza boss planning on expending his influence to the States and who wanted the Starks to supply him with guns and ammunition. Then, Mother had called to ask him if he was _sure_ about what he was doing, and Robb steadfastly refuse to think about that conversation _at all_. The fourth call had been from Bran, but Robb had never gotten to hear what his little brother had wanted of him because Theon had snatched his phone away from him.

“Look, Robb, I gotta ask this, is your phone always ringing so much, or does everyone manage to synchronize themselves to call when you’re with me? I’m gonna take a wild guess here and say that everyone’s always calling you for stuff, right?” He hadn’t had anything to say to that, because it was true. It had always been like that, though, even when they’d been living back in Germany—Robb’s phone rang constantly. “Robb, ever thought about taking a little break from all this? Maybe stop answering your phone for a while?”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can. I’m not asking you to shut the evil, little thing off completely, just stop answering everything that isn’t life or death. At least while you’re with me. Come on, baby steps, okay? You could use the time off and I’ve never liked to be ignored when I’m with someone.”

At first he’d wanted to refuse, but if he thought about it...Well, what harm could it do. It’s wasn’t as if he spent _that_ much time with Theon; in reality it was only about an hour, an hour and a half. Things could wait for a short hour, right? It ‘was not as though he always had to be on call.

He looked at his phone and then at Theon, who was still stealing pieces of Robb’s tart. He had planned on calling Jeyne later as it was, and then he’d also have much more time to talk to her. It could wait for another half hour, and if it was something truly important, she’d call again in a few minutes, right? He put his phone back on the table and let it vibrate away.

“Good call.”

Robb didn’t quite like the smug satisfaction in the other’s voice, but he didn’t say anything about it, only pushed his fruit tart across the table in front of Theon. The smile that spread across Theon’s face was strangely adorable, even though it didn’t go very well with his action star leather jacket or his motorcycle. “Oh, Robb, you’re the absolute best!”

“I feel like I just gave crack to a junkie.” Robb tried very hard not to grin at Theon, but failed spectacularly. Somehow, he didn’t even notice when his phone stopped vibrating. 

 

***

_February 28, 2013,_

_Winterfell,_

_Sansa Stark._

 

***

Sansa’s favorite room in Winterfell Manor was the library. There were so many books there it would be next to impossible to read all of them, but as she went through the different volumes, she found herself excited to take on the challenge. Brandon had confessed that he wasn’t much of a reader, none of his siblings had been. It seemed as though the last person to truly have had an interested in literature had been her grandmother Alyssa. Ever since her time, the library had been kept in a pristine state, though it had rarely been used.

Grandmother Alyssa had kept careful registers for her library, but they were long since outdated. Sansa had taken it upon herself to reorganize the library: a massive project to be sure, but between dancing lessons, cooking classes, learning how to shoot with Rodrik Cassel, and now this, she was able to keep herself busy all day long.

Sansa needed to keep busy. Needed to have something to do so she wouldn’t think about her wretched dreams.

She dreamt every night. She dreamt of fire and blood, of a city burning to the ground by green flames, and a pale figure sitting on a throne made of swords, cackling manically as he chanted _burn, burn, burn._

She would wake up screaming, crying. At first she had thought them only nightmares, told herself it was exhaustion that carried his voice into her waking hours. But that was before she had woken up with bruises on her wrists from where he had grabbed her in her dreams, before she’d woken up with burns on her body because he had touched her. Sansa could hear his voice in her head even now, conscious as she was, and recently...recently she’d started feeling him as well.

It was stupid. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. Even so, Sansa heard his laughter drifting from behind a corner, his nails like sharp claws beating a rhythm for only her to hear.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. There was no use in obsessing about it, or she’d end up like Arya; talking circles about things that _were not real._ This wasn’t something to be shared, it was private. If she didn’t tell anyone, if she just kept it to herself, then it wasn’t truly happening. It was all in her head. Sansa went back to cataloguing the different books diligently, feeling somewhat safe as she walked from one shelf to the other with a pen and notebook in hand.

It was so quite, and she startled badly when her phone started ringing. It was only Jeyne, though. It was nothing to worry about.

“Hey, Jeyne. How are you?” she questioned as she answered her phone. It had been some time since she talked to Jeyne, and Sansa found that she’d missed her voice. They had gotten along great from the start. Sansa knew that Mr. and Mrs. Westerling didn’t think too highly of Robb, and Elenya could hardly stand him. It weighed on poor Jeyne, who was so susceptible to the moods and feelings of those around her, that her family hadn’t accepted her fiancé into their family. On their side, the Starks all had mixed feelings about _Jeyne_ , so Sansa had taken it as her duty to make Jeyne feel as comfortable as possible around her family. Sansa would often find herself easing away the fears Jeyne didn’t want to tell Robb about, usually ones that concerned their relationship. She didn’t mind it, though; as a matter of fact, Sansa quite enjoyed being so close to her future sister-in-law.

“I’m...” the other girl started, hesitating briefly before she continued, “I just wanted to see if everything was all right.” She sounded unsure of how to proceed from there.

“Everything’s fine here. The question is: is everything all right with you?”

“Yes. I’m all right. I just wanted to talk to you about Robb. Has something been going on with him lately?”

“He’s had a lot on his mind lately, but I don’t think I’m the one you should be asking about this. He’s going to talk to you about it eventually.” He had to. If Robb was planning on getting more involved in the Stark business, he wouldn't be able to keep Jeyne in the dark about it.

“So, you don’t think I should be worried about anything?” Jeyne wanted someone to ease her worries, that much was obvious, but Sansa wasn’t really sure what she should tell her. Sansa was worried about Robb, but then again, Sansa tended to worry about all of her siblings excessively. Robb had the best intention with this, she knew that, but no one knew how any of this would turn out.

“No. You shouldn’t be worried, sweetie.” She tried to sound convincing, and she thought she had succeeded when she heard Jeyne give a relived sigh.

“So you don’t think he’s met someone, or...?”

“Pfft. Robb?” Sansa let out an incredulous laugh. “Only if she popped out of Uncle Brandon’s desk. Robb’s been running all sorts of errands for him, that’s it. He’s been busy, but there’s nothing to worry about.”

Jeyne was silent on the other end for a while before she said, “I’m glad I called you. You should be a counselor, you know. You always know what to say.” Jeyne finally sounded as if she’d relaxed a bit. “What’s going on with you lately, Sansa?” Jeyne asked, and Sansa felt something break inside of her at that question, because she didn’t know how to answer that. Wasn’t even sure she knew what was going on with her.

_I’m going mad. I’ve never been more afraid in my life. I’m hearing a man’s voice and I hope it’s only in my head. But I don’t know how it could be when it feels so present and constant, as though nothing else is going to feel more real than this awful, paralyzing fear. I hear him all the time, he’s slowly poisoning every aspect of my life. I can’t tell anyone, I can’t, I can’t. I can’t be like Arya, I can’t let this take hold of me, but I’m powerless to stop it. It can’t be real, but it is, Jeyne, it is, and who’s going to save me from him? He has to be real._

She heard a noise. A creaking of the wood. Pressure of feet.

“I’m fine,” she muttered quickly. Sansa desperately wanted to turn, to look over her shoulder and see what was behind her, but she was so afraid of what awaited her if she did.

“Sansa, are you sure you’re okay? You sound weird.”

There. Again. Clothing rustling. Someone breathing. Footsteps. Getting closer.

Sansa swallowed. “I’m fine, Jeyne. I’m sorry, I can’t talk anymore.” She hung up before Jeyne could say anything else.

She stopped breathing. 

She smelled something, something bitter and choking; like smoke. Something metallic and sickly sweet; like blood. Closer and closer to her. His presence behind her.

Sansa closed her eyes tightly.

“It’s not real.” Her voice was barely a whisper, small and terrified, her whole world narrowed down to a single point. To her fear. “It’s not. You’re not real.”

Sansa suddenly felt as if she was being run through with a hot iron; a red, hot sword slicing through the middle of her chest, just as his laughter passed over her. Not now, it seemed to whisper to her. Not yet.

The pain passed as quickly as it had come, and it left her dizzy with relief. Sansa took in greedy gulps of air when she found she could breathe again, and she tried to calm the wild beating of her heart. She put a hand on the nearest shelf to steady herself, a soft sob escaping through her hard-pressed lips as she lost the fight against the onslaught of her endless tears.

 

***

_March 1, 2013,_

_King’s Pub, Boston,_

_Roose Bolton._

 

***

The Lannister woman was staring at Roose with disdain barely in check, still, she knew better than to comment on anything aloud. Lothar Frey was sitting across the table from her, studying her with his small, beady eyes, but she took no notice of it.

They had decided to meet at a dingy, little pub in downtown Boston, where no one asked questions and no one remembered your face after you’d left. Cersei had flown in from California earlier that day to settle their business contract. She was sitting in her chair, all prim and proper, with a glass of vodka in front of her.

The atmosphere between them was tense.

“How do I know I can trust you?” Frey asked her, and Cersei Lannister laughed at him, making his already sullen mood even darker.

“You don’t. But if it makes you feel any better, I intend to honor my word. Old man Walder Frey was an ally of my father; I’m not going to go dealing with him after I’m placed as head of the family.” And Roose knew if Cersei Lannister had her way, that would be happening sooner rather than later.

She had come to Roose with two suitcases filled with neatly stacked bundles of cash, promising they would be his, if only he agreed to report to her and not her father.

“In skirts or pants, a lion still has its claws. I’m the Lannister you want to deal with, Officer Bolton. Daddy’s reign is soon coming to an end,” she had told him then, with a smile as beautiful as it was sharp.

Lothar Frey was just as ambitious, but where Cersei Lannister was tired of waiting for her father to name her head of the family, and tired of being treated like a child, tired of not being taken seriously, as she herself had put it; Lothar had found himself much too low on the food chain to ever hope of being head of his family. Cersei Lannister had promised him that after the death of Walder Frey she would give him the full support of the Lannister family in case he wanted to make a claim to his father’s previous position.

Now, she took a delicate sip of her vodka before she leveled Frey with an unnerving gaze. “The only thing I need from you, Mr. Frey, is to make sure my aunt Genna doesn’t get any ideas about coming to my father’s help. I don’t care what you do with her, just make sure she’s out of the picture for the next...three months or so. Petyr Baelish has already promised to take care of my uncle Kevan.”

The Lannister bitch must have been more desperate than he thought if she’d enlisted the help of a man like Petyr Baelish. However, Roose was well aware that the threat of her uncle was considerably more dangerous to her plans than anything else. Cersei had reluctantly admitted to him that the head of the Lannister family could only be dismissed if his council voted him out of the position. Tywin Lannister’s council of advisors consisted of his brother Kevan, his sister Genna, Mathis Rowan, and Petyr Baelish; the Lannister family’s lawyer. In recent years, Cersei had been accepted in the council as well, but only after it had became obvious that Jaime Lannister wouldn’t be taking over his father’s position. Tyrion Lannister was off in Monaco, managing his own hotels and casinos, and Tywin had flat out refused to ever acknowledge his youngest as a possible heir. Cersei was all he had, but even so, rumor had it the two rarely saw eye to eye.

Some time ago, Tywin Lannister had approached Roose with a plan to take out Brandon Stark of the game for good. He had promised to help Walder Frey take control of the Stark family business, because surely, it would all fall apart with Brandon gone and no heir in place. That had been a little over a year ago, and things had definitely changed since then. Now Catelyn Stark was in the picture and Brandon wanted his estranged brother’s son as his heir. And Cersei...Cersei wanted Tywin’s position.

Mathis Rowan’s vote had been swayed into her favor probably the same way Roose had been. If Genna and Kevan were gone, Cersei could have Tywin ousted as the family head and have herself voted as the new Lannister in charge, and with Petyr Baelish on her side...the man was scum, but he was smart scum. His favor didn’t come without a price though, and Roose found himself wondering just exactly what Cersei had been willing to pay.

“Baelish wants me to give him Brandon Stark’s head on a silver platter. While I can’t provide a proper beheading, I can make sure he’s out of the picture. I trust you to handle that, Officer Bolton.”

“I could try to arrange a beheading, but ultimately I think arresting him is a much better option,” Roose told her carelessly. Petyr Baelish’s hate for Brandon Stark was legendary. He’d accused the man of stealing Catelyn Stark from him, of driving her away. He hated Stark for poisoning Hoster Tully against him and for having made sure he would never set foot in the Tully household.

Cersei smirked and downed the rest of her drink in one go. “Good, good.” She raised her empty glass and looked at it longingly. A shadow of something that might have been anger, but just as easily could have been sadness, settled over her. “You know, Daddy was always paranoid, always thinking that one of his children would betray him. I guess he always expected Tyrion to arrange a coup and sit his tiny ass at the head of the table.” Her laughter was throaty and bitter, and it was an ugly thing to hear from such a beautiful woman. “I guess he’ll never expect me to be his downfall.” 

She called over a waitress and ordered a round of scotch for all three of them. When the drinks arrived, Cersei raised her glass and toasted to herself.

“To my father, Tywin Lannister, may he be proud.”

 

***

_March 10, 2013,_

_Time: 5:45 PM ,_

_Robb Stark._

 

***

 

“Sansa, I’m sorry, I can’t pick you up. I’m sort of busy right now.”

Actually, Robb was sitting on a little sofa in a coffeehouse he and Theon had picked out at random. It was really nice, with plush armchairs and sofas in deep, dark burgundy instead of chairs, and there was heavy velvet drapes at the windows. The place wasn’t crowded and they also made great cappuccinos; perfect to sit down and relax for a little while. Maybe he should bring Sansa here as well, the next time she asked him to pick her up from her dancing lessons.

“I understand that you’re busy, but I was hoping we could get dinner and talk? I...” Sansa paused, and Robb spared a brief moment to wonder if the hesitation in her voice was worth worrying about. In the end, he decided against it. “I wanted to talk to you about something,” she said.

“Sansa, I’m sure it can wait,” he told her a bit absentmindedly, all the while trying to ignore Theon’s stare on him.

Sansa wasn’t a caller he could just ignore. He’d tried it once, and then she had called again half a minute later, so of course he was going to answer her. Theon was trying his hardest to make sure he couldn’t concentrate on the phone call, though. He had moved from his armchair across from Robb to the sofa, and he was staring at Robb with this weird mix of interest and mischievousness that promised nothing good.

“I guess it can, but I’d rather it didn’t, Robb. It’s really important and I...” Theon somehow chose that exact moment to grab one of Robb’s curls and pull at it sharply.

“Ow! Oh, for crying out loud! What are you, twelve?” The exasperation in his voice was laced with something akin to fond amusement, shaking his head at the other man. Theon was like a cat that refused to leave you alone until you gave it the proper amount of attention, right down to the lazy quirk of his lips. In response to Robb’s annoyance, he only tugged at the same lock of hair a little harder. The situation was all so juvenile and ridiculous; it was even a little bit funny.

Well... Only a little.

“Robb? Where _are_ you? Were you even paying any attention to what I just said?” Sansa sounded more than a little hurt, and it sent a sharp sting of guilt quickly through his chest.

“I’m sorry, I just got a little distracted. Look, we’ll talk tonight, okay?”

“Fine,” Sansa sighed, and the sound was so much like their mother it was frightening. “We’ll talk tonight. Have fun, then,” she told him in that gentle way of hers, and hung up on him before he had the chance to respond.

Sansa.

Of course she knew he had been lying when he said he was busy. It only made the stinging sensation more pronounced if he cared to think about it, so he ignored it and focused on something more immediate.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s not polite to interrupt others?” He turned to Theon and tried to imitate the seriousness his father used when trying to explain something to Arya. He must have failed at it spectacularly, because Theon’s responding grin was wide enough to strain a muscle in his cheeks.

“She tried, but it was a hopeless fight. Eventually, she gave in.” The edges of his smirk faltered, if only for a second. “Anyway, I thought I was saving you from having to deal with...who was that? Your sister?”

“Yes, my sister Sansa. And I didn’t need any saving.” Robb frowned as his gaze drifted across the room and refused to turn to Theon. “Contrary to what you may think, I actually like my family.” He didn’t know why he felt so defensive all of a sudden, but Sansa’s phone call had left him with a small well of nervous tension brewing right underneath the surface. “Not everyone is allergic to family, and we can’t all play the commitment free man-child all our lives, you know.”

He regretted it the second he said it.

While he and Theon met regularly, Robb didn’t know very much about him, not truly, and truth be told, he preferred it like that.

He already knew all he wanted to know about Theon: he laughed too loud and smiled all the time, never took anything seriously and walked around looking as though the entire world was supposed to just bow at his feet. He called Robb inappropriate things like ‘baby’ and ‘hot stuff’ and stole his food all the damned time. He generally acted as if everyone should be grateful that he existed. He was all around awful, but fun, and even though Robb had spent most of his life hating guys like Theon, he found himself strangely charmed by him. There was no need for some deeper analysis; things were fine the way they were. Who knew what he was going to find if he started digging a little deeper and really got to know Theon?

Superficial discussions about family were allowed—Theon knew about Robb’s brothers and sisters, but Robb had absolutely no knowledge whatsoever about Theon’s own relatives. However, bringing forth deeper family relationships and Theon’s opinion of them was treading into uncharted territories, and it made him weary, because it made Robb think about what kind of life Theon had outside of the little bubble universe they’d created with their endless stream of coffee shops and restaurants and baked sweets. Robb really, really tried not to think about that.

The last time one of them had asked—and done—something that might have been meaningful, Robb’s phone had started vibrating and interrupted the moment. And really, there was no point in going over what had happened, because hadn’t he already decided that it had been _nothing_ at all?

He prepared to open his mouth to make a quick and abrupt change of subject, but Theon didn’t give him a chance, because he laughed, head falling back and baring his neck to Robb. Usually when Theon laughed it was explosive and vivid, starting somewhere deep within his ribcage and pouring through his lips all rough and inviting. This was a hollow, slightly choked thing that sounded nothing like he usually did, but Robb realized with a start that it wasn’t something new; this was something old and maybe wounded, just as much a part of him as his carefree smirks.

“I think you’d be allergic too, if you were in my position.” The words were just a touch too bitter to be casual, and Robb really, really shouldn’t ask but...

“Why do you say that?”

“Because my uncles are all several degrees of crazy. My sister is evil and my father...” Theon’s smirk was razor sharp and challenging. “Well, he’s dead. Had an _accident_ a while back.” Judging by the way he’d said it, one would think he didn’t give a damn about it, but Robb knew him better, and he could hear something that sounded a lot like hurt in his voice.

“I’m sorry about that.” He didn’t expect Theon to take the condolences very well, but he was still left feeling awkward and clumsy when the other man simply laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“What do you have to feel sorry about? It was his own damned fault, not yours.” With those words the conversation was effectively closed, but there was no easy way to move over the pressure that had settled over them.

Theon’s entire posture had shifted from having his hands sprawled over the back of the sofa to shrinking in on himself, shoulders slumping slightly and smile vanished off his face. Robb couldn’t even pinpoint when the transformation had happened, but one second he had been looking at the Theon he knew and the next he was just...not there anymore. He thought it might just have been the most honest reaction he’d seen from Theon yet, and it barely scratched the surface. Robb didn’t want to know more. He wanted to know everything.

But...

But what was he supposed to say now? _I know how that feels? I think you are more than you let me see. I never wanted to know anything about you, because I was afraid of what I would find and now I think that maybe I was right?_

Robb didn’t say any of that, instead he turned to the table in front of them and picked up his little cappuccino cup and took a sip. It was a bit too sweet for him, and next time he’d ask them not to put so much sugar in it. As he drank, he felt intruding fingers creep back into his hair, no doubt preparing to pull at it again. It was less annoying now, more like the air clearing between, letting them go back to their usual banter. He wanted to look at Theon with a straight face and tell him to stop, _you’re not on the playground_ , but somehow the words never quite made it passed his lips.

The fingers in his hair tightened slightly and pulled, only a fraction, coaxing his head back. And he should have resisted it, he really should have, but he let himself be pulled towards Theon, went willingly until they were inches away from each other. This was not what he had expected. Robb tried very, very hard to stay still and not think about how close he was to Theon, because then he’d have to tell himself to jerk back from him and despite himself, he wanted to just...

Theon was so _close_ , Robb could see each individual eyelash and the gentle creases of skin over his lips, could smell his cologne and the coffee on his breath. His face held a softness to it that Theon hadn’t let him see before, a kind of openness about his eyes and brow; it made him look younger, sweeter in a way he would have never associated with Theon. Robb wet his lips and breathed in, feeling more as if he was facing down a bullet rather than a friend.

He felt Theon lean forward before he saw him move, and he knew exactly what to expect, but the kiss still took him by surprise because of the gentleness of it. It was a first kiss with all that is entitled: only warm pressure, careful and endearing rather than arousing. Chaste. It sent Robb’s heart into a wild rhythm, made the air in his lungs feel heavy, made his stomach tighten and his fingers weak, not because Theon’s lips were on his, but because this felt like the inevitable conclusion, he’d just been too much of an idiot to realize it. It felt like fate, sealing it in place, as though he’d been waiting for that moment since forever, felt righ...

_Wrong._

_No._

It felt like betrayal. He was realizing he had just committed the biggest mistake of his life. It was _nothing like Jeyne_.

He should have pulled back. He should have stopped. He should have pushed Theon away from him. He should have brought forth Jeyne’s image in his mind, her face and her smile and her lips, but his chest felt tight and warm because of Theon.

In the end, it wasn’t him that pulled back, it was Theon, breaking the kiss just as easy and as nonchalantly as he’d started it, as if he hadn’t just knocked Robb’s world off its axis with something so simple as a kiss. He leaned back and looked at Robb with his lips quirked and something that could have been mocking and could have been fond shining in his eyes.

“Well? Usually the reaction isn’t staring blankly ahead. Not that I don’t find your ‘deer in headlights’ expression to be cute, but I’m expecting another kiss or a punch in the face here, or something. Yes or no are appropriate answers as well.” He could see Theon was trying to look as if it didn’t really matter either way, but Robb doubted that was the case.

But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if this had been Theon just wanting to try out how it would feet to kiss Robb or if this was serious, because Robb couldn’t afford to find out.

He got up in hurriedly, banging his elbow on the table in the process. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” he muttered as he grabbed his coat and his phone, walking out of the coffeehouse briskly, not daring to look back.

Theon didn’t follow him, and Robb wasn’t at all sure how he felt about that.

_Glad, you’re glad he didn’t follow you._

Because if he had...

_Nothing would have happened_ , Robb told himself angrily. Nothing at all.

***

_March 10, 2013,_

_Time: 6:20 PM,_

_Sansa Stark._

 

***

Sansa decided to walk back from her dancing lessons. If Robb didn’t want to come get her, she would just go back on her own, thank you very much. It was just starting to get dark outside, but it would take a while for night to settle yet. She’d walked the same road before—it was long, and it took her about an hour and a half to reach Winterfell Manor by foot, but she felt she needed the walk to clear her head a little. The cold would do wonders for her. All day, she had been plagued by a terrible headache, and the dancing lessons had left her with a heated energy burning inside of her.

It wasn’t that she was upset with Robb, not exactly. She was disappointed, because Sansa knew it would take a long time for her to gather the courage to talk to anyone about this...this _thing_ that was happening to her, and if she couldn’t find it in herself to tell Robb, who could she tell?

Mother, perhaps?

No, Mother had enough on her mind already, and Sansa remembered what things had been like when Arya was little and she’d started talking about the man she always saw. Sansa didn’t want anyone looking at her with pity in their eyes, judging her for something they would never understand.

Arya was the best option considering she probably had some similar experiences, but Arya still wasn’t talking to her and there would be no use going to her sister for a counsel on how to deal with this. And even if Arya did talk to her, Sansa couldn’t find it in her heart to share something so private with a little sister that barely knew what was going on in Sansa’s life, never mind her heart and head. Bran and Rickon weren’t an option, because while she loved them dearly, neither of them would understand her fears. There was no one to go to.

Moments like this were when she missed her father most.

She opened the buttons of her pea coat as she walked and untangled her scarf from around her neck. It was still cold outside, her breath a cloud of fog in front of her, but somehow, she was so uncomfortably, sickeningly, feverishly hot. Sansa was sweating under all her layers, she felt as if she was burning up from the inside, as though there was a fire that raged deep inside of her and left only scorched patches of flesh behind it.

Her headache was almost unbearable now and Sansa was dizzy with the heat. The world under her moved too quickly, her legs unsteady as she stopped to gather her senses back into some semblance of order. This wasn’t good. The edges of her vision had started to darken. Sansa didn’t have any kind of pills that would numb the pain with her. Her best bet now was to just wait it out, at least until it became manageable again.

But...ah, the pain. It was throbbing painfully as it pulsed violently in her head. It was a constant rhythm of beat-stop-beat-stop that quickened and quickened, refusing to let her go.

The building at her left had five steps leading up to its door, and Sansa stumbled over to them on shaky legs, sitting down heavily as she crossed her hand over her knees to pillow her head. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to calm her breathing, but it did little to help.

_“Poor child.”_

Sansa froze.

No. That voice.

No.

Why was it here? This was the voice in her head. Why was she hearing it coming from above her, in front of her? Why was she feeling heat radiate from her front? She gritted her teeth and refused to look up. If she didn’t look at him, he wasn’t real.

“Let me make it better.” His voice was like the sweetest kind of poison, and it burned her ears. “I will make it all go away.” He put his hand on her head and pushed it back. The threat of what would happen if she didn’t obey was there, obvious in the tension of his palm, in the claw-like nails he combed through her hair. She found herself having no choice but to look at him.

The blood was the first thing she saw, the gaping wound across his throat that oozed blood. There was no smell, but the sight of it was gruesome; how it stained his white robes, how his beard was mattered with blood, dried and fresh alike. But the blood was nothing, and the wound was easy to look at compared to his purple eyes. His eyes, like a colored glass that was empty and dead, only they shined. This was a creature broken and twisted, animated by hate and madness.

Sansa would have screamed if the sound hadn’t frozen in her throat.

One pale finger reached out for her, the talon that was his nail scratching her skin. It wasn’t painful, but it had the potential of being so, and Sansa wasn’t about to test it. He touched her cheek, swept away the wetness that had gathered under her eyes. She had been crying, Sansa realized then.

“I will burn away all your pain. Fire cleanses all.”

He bent over her and kissed her, and Sansa was powerless in front of him. His kiss was like pressing her mouth against hot iron and she thought for sure he had burned her lips away with it. She tried to struggle, but it was a futile attempt and they both knew it. Sansa felt something slipping through her lips, a thick liquid that tasted rancid in her mouth. Whatever it was, it spread through her, numbing—no, not numbing, burning. He was burning away all sensation, until there was nothing left inside of her, only a darkened hollow.

The next thing she knew, Sansa was falling. Falling, falling, falling, until she wasn’t anymore and she was swallowed by the emptiness

***                                               

_March 10, 2013,_

_Time: 6:52 PM,_

_Winterfell,_

_Brandon Stark._

***

Brandon had been waiting for Catelyn and Brynden to come back when he heard the knock on the door.

He hadn’t been expecting any guests, and Catelyn and Brynden both knew they had open access to his door. However, people tended to visit unannounced, especially if it was somehow related to business. Brandon couldn’t recall anything important enough that was supposed to happen today, though, nothing that would warrant a personal visit to the head of the family. Even so, he couldn’t possibly ignore whoever it was. 

He had been walking towards his fathe...towards his study when he had heard the knock, and he called out for the maid to leave it be; he would answer the door himself.

Brandon blinked, suitably surprised when he came face to face with Roose Bolton’s pale, bloodless face.

“Officer Bolton. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he questioned as he took in the police cars—two of them—and the police men in his driveway.

This couldn’t be anything but a disaster waiting to happen.

Bolton was the worst kind of scum, the kind that only responded to money and who would turn on anyone without an ounce of remorse. Brandon had  dealt with him more than a few times, and the man had once arrested him for arms trafficking. There had been no solid evidence to pin Brandon to the charges, so he had walked away from it in the end, even though Bolton had done everything in his power to ensure the contrary.

And now here he was, again, looking at Brandon with something akin to satisfaction in his pale, blue eyes.

“Mr. Stark,” he spoke, holding out a piece of paper which he proceeded to shove under Brandon’s nose, “I am here because I have a warrant for your arrest.”

Yes, definitely a disaster.

“On what charges this time, Officer Bolton?” He had been so sure they’d had nothing on him, he honestly had no idea what this was about. He had been careless during his younger years, but over time, he had learned how to cover his tracks. There was nothing that could possible pin him to any of the Stark enterprises, he was so careful about everything.

“I’m arresting you for the murder of Kevan Lannister. You’ve been sloppy, Mr. Stark. We found your fingerprints on the murder weapon, which just so happens to be a gun with wolf sigils. Does that sound familiar, hmm? There are also reliable witnesses placing you at the murder scene.” Bolton’s words were sweetly menacing and dripping with poison, his teeth bared in ugly triumph. “Please turn around.” Bolton held out a pair of handcuffs, and Brandon found himself responding automatically to his request, turning his back to the other man, arms folding behind his back as his mind reeled with a myriad of scattered thoughts. 

_I haven’t seen Kevan Lannister in years. I threw away that gun after I found out Lyanna was dead. I would never kill such an important man myself; I’d have someone else do it for me. I can’t go to prison, what will to happen to Winterfell?_

The one thought that rang louder than any other was such a common thought in his mind, the simple truth behind it making his heart seize painfully.

_Cat is going to hate me for this._

***

_March 14, 2013,_

_Tyrell Private Jet, destination: Spain,_

_Garth Tyrell._

 

***

Varys had told him to take the young woman as far as Spain, so Garth listened to him. He owed the Spider for getting him out of a particularly prickly situation he had gotten himself in once, but that didn’t mean he had to like any of the errands the bastard set out for him. This one in particular reeked of trouble, but Garth wasn’t going to poke his nose into where it didn’t belong.

She’d stepped into his private jet without saying a word, and she had remained silent for the entire ride. She had just sat there quietly, staring straight ahead. Creepiest, young woman he’d ever seen, that’s what she had been. Gorgeous though, but he wasn’t going to try anything with someone that gave of weird vibes like that.

Her dress had been a skimpy, little number; red and black, with a V-neck that showed off more cleavage than appropriate. She’d caught him staring once, but with a single, bloodcurdling look she’d managed to spook him so terribly he didn’t even try to look again.

When they finally landed in Barcelona, she looked at him long and hard, till he felt as if he was going to burst into flames due to the sheer intensity of her gaze.

“Many thanks for your service.” She proceeded to smile at him and gracefully arose from her seat. Garth shivered uncomfortably as he guided her out of the jet. He’d helped her get into the damned country illegally, now he could go back home and never thing about this woman again.

He knew that would be impossible, though. He’d never be able to forget her; with her high cheekbones and her red hair. And her eyes. The most fascinating thing about her had been her eyes: he could have sworn they had been blue at the beginning of the ride, but when she looked at him last, they had been...different. They had been violet.

This woman might have been bad news, but he had been responsible for getting her into the country, so he felt like he owed it to his family to give them the heads up.

When he got home, the first thing he did was to call Willas.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Dear person currently reading my end notes, thank you very much for clicking on my story and reading the first chapter. :D There's more to come and hopefully it will be an interesting read for all. 
> 
> I need to offer a special 'thank you' to my beta, the wonderful [hazel-3017](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/604957/). Without her, this story would have been riddled with all kinds of stupid mistakes and typos. She kicked it into shape.


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